Secret Handshake

secret handshake

coming back from junkman's past a string of bars,

each wreathed in smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes.

a wry refrain goes buzzing through my brain,

a trip of the tongue, the line is given,

"Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!"

and yeah, big smiles, guys, i'm king

for all of nine seconds, till the next thing

hits and we go scrambling over cinder blocks.

i cock it up, go sailing to the stars.

sure, i'm okay, can't stop this thing of ours.

we bang on trash cans, own this mad mad world,

we'll tweak the ladies' ribbons from their curls,

and greater still, steal some secluded space

to string out lines, till sleep our fears displace.

how far a night of droning could we take

without the wink and secret handshake?

now watch that jigsaw falling into place