PLAYA DORADA

At the all-in resort,
while my buddies sun-bathed
by day and chased tail for sport
in strobe-lit bars after dark,
I drank in the shade,
didn’t shave,
muttered “Let ‘em come
to me if they want some.”
They didn’t.
One night the cool kids
conned that eager dumb
schmuck Durrett into chugging
a full tumbler of 151 rum,
whereupon he staggered
down the dew-drenched beach
to plant his shit-bagged
face in the sand--where he barfed.
A scabby stray bitch
appeared to lap the puke
from his lips. Each
day, I woke half-drunk,
had three beers for breakfast.
Each day, the buzz
got harder to build, till at last
I’d drunk myself sober.
Seemed like good fun
at the time. Suppose it was.
I’m not sorry it’s over.