The elephant in the room
led to day-drinking. . .
ensconced in studio equipped with
hot plate,
bath-free bath,
and screened window of fluctuating size,
the addition of Babar
made the claustrophobic closet
one paciderm too populated
–and margarita short of Taco Tuesday
the elephant wasn’t too blame. . .
the work-around I employed
–learning to scale walls—
hinged on equipment given to error,
and the work-around he found
–at Christmas office parties, and stultifying family gatherings—
was sporadic at best
since despite his edge
of maleness,
whiteness,
and impressive trunk & toenails,
there just wasn’t much call for
white elephants, anymore
–particularly offline
The day-drinking fed
into night drinking
–hapless hours in which the tusky fellow also partook, and by the gallon–
me, trying to forget,
and he, completely unable to, possessed as he was
of regrettable long-term memory—
all of which ultimately resulted
in photosensitivity
–on my part—
and sticky skin
–as far as he went—
I tried coping. . .
purchasing pair after pair of drugstore sunglass,
but no matter the tint,
Babar always looked in the pink
when I wore them. . .
pirouetting despite the notable lack of pomp & circus,
–doubling down when I rested-
his coping mechanisms
were understandably murkier. . .
comprised of Wild Kingdom reruns,
shelled peanuts,
and mammoth hangovers,
–but then. . .
so were mine.
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