Getting Bombed, poem by Nat Hardy

    Tonight, the chick with the killer bod
    finally went ballistic.

    In the wake of noise, drinks went flying
    through a hail of fake tits and toupees.

    Women wore hearts on their sleeves;
    hard drinkers were bent out of shape,

    even the regulars abandoned their posts
    to pirouette to the strange music.

    And when the dancing stopped,
    I was wearing a table and you were legless at the bar.

    In a mosh pit of glass and claret,
    I sprawled on the furniture of strangers,

    With red gravy in my hair, a slick taste in my mouth.
    and a hand on my lap that wasn’t mine.

Dr. Nat Hardy, Assistant Professor
Department of Communications and Fine Arts Rogers State University
1701 W. Will Rogers Blvd.
Claremore, OK, 74017-3252

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