Really?

I never drink gin. I drank gin

at a VFW hall—somebody's thirty years,

folding chairs, a banner. By ten

I'd knocked one over. My shin

bruised purple by morning.

I said something to somebody's wife.

I know by the turn at her shoulder,

the laugh like closing a knife.

I can't remember what I told her.

The rest is fluorescent light,

my forehead on the window home,

then Sunday, too bright,

a headache like a metronome.

A cocktail napkin in my jacket pocket.

Someone else's handwriting. One word:

Really?

The tail of the question mark

curling off the edge.

Tuesday. I keep smoothing it flat

on the counter. The ink fades

where my thumb holds it down.

I don't know what I said.

I don't know who wrote back.