If I could
write
in the hand of
Baudelaire, the
beautiful Alexandra
might
love me.
If I could
even pretend
to pen an
ode
then I would
write one
for the passing
away of
a creaking
wooden bridge
named Bono.
A real bridge
not the U2 guy.
If the sun
keeps on
shining,
I may write
a poem and
clear my head.
If I could
think clear
even for a moment
I would know
I needed
another drink,
with a little ice.
