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I don’t care for the wagon

April 26, 2011

Here’s a poem I wrote to amuse consoling-windows friend a few years ago, when we were taking a hiatus from drinking. Yesterday we pledged, after we overindulged at Easter (your hangover remedies were more timely than you thought) to remain pure as the driven snow until Friday. Our bodies are temples of the Holy Ghost. (This weekend I’m having two absolutely delightful houseguests, and we’ll be eight at table on Saturday night, including consoling-windows friend and her husband, so we will then ditch the teetotaling and indulge ourselves with Mardi-Gras-like abandon.)

But right now I’m hungry and crabby, and this poem, chanted dully, is the only thing keeping me from stuffing my maw with purloined Easter candy. Bedtime can’t come soon enough.


I don’t care for the wagon
It’s boring and slow
Hate purposeful transit.
I’ve nowhere to go.

Why should I remember
each word that was said?
Who cares if I sleep well?
I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

When you’re on the wagon
the evening, she drags.
The children, they bicker.
My spirits, they flag.

Tomorrow I’ll welcome
a panic-free morn.
But here, on the wagon
I’m pissed. And forlorn.

5 Comments leave one →
  1. April 27, 2011 5:52 am

    Bwahahahaha! Love it! I’ve always said I’ll never be an alcoholic because then I wouldn’t be able to drink anymore and your poem sums up delightfully those gray evenings of enforced breaks from booze. “The children, they bicker” – ha!

  2. April 28, 2011 12:23 pm

    That is wonderful! You are a gem!

  3. irretrievablybroken permalink*
    April 28, 2011 12:36 pm

    Whew, finally–I’m glad SOMEone is as amused by me as I am. By sober me, I mean.

  4. Donna permalink
    April 29, 2011 9:14 pm

    Awesome. I may have to frame it, or at least print it out and try not to lose it. I think the second stanza is my favorite, although I love it all. Thanks for sharing.

  5. CWF permalink
    May 1, 2011 3:50 pm

    My all time favorite poem. One of many the brilliant and witty IB has amused me with.

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