Hangover | poem

Lungs
huff morning.
Sun drips
in pores—honey
in tea—reeks
of rum.

Backs
warped—pink
Solo cups
floating in
bins—wasted.

Eyes
raw—coins
thumbed by scholars
who can’t let go
of bottles—trip
over papers

strewn across
crumbs on sheets
on bodies on beds, and
then—thesis: the cure is—

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