Melinda won’t find me ’cause I’m
in house hunkered,
piggin’ [Slim] Jims,
drinkin’ gin.
Ain’t bathed in so long, got a pong
and some crotch rot.
I should ablute,
get off my glutes.

Don’t wanna get ill,
so I swill proof post-90.
Drinkin’ all day,
then I say to self, “Nightie!”
That’s my current plan:
a shelter-in-place man,
solitary man.

I’m all out of beer,
and I fear that my pot’s purged.
But there’s gin
for din-din.

Go out in the sun?
That ain’t done—now it’s taboo.
Come the dawn—
no shades on.

Ain’t got any pills,
so I swill proof post-90.
Distractions in play:
I’m arrayed in a nightie.
Lookin’ pretty glam,
a vestment-changing man,
’sole*-I’m-wearing man.


*camisole