by Steven Clark and Ron Whitehead

Long ride home, wrong bus. 
Opened a bottle, tried to read, tried to write. 
National Anthem then white noise, fuzz. 
Passed out. Dreamed I dialed a friend. No answer. 
Woke up. Found the half-empty bottle of bourbon next to the half-read novel: Knut Hamsun's Hunger. 
Neighbors are waking up and going to work while I fry bologna in grandma's cast-iron skillet. 
I look down and realize I'm wearing my wrinkled ripped and filthy dirty sequined purple tux jacket and my leopard skin boots are muddy but my shirt and pants are gone. 
Nearly naked, I walk to the mirror and when I see the red lipstick smeared all over my face. I wonder who gave me a ride from the bus station and how I avoided being arrested. 
I look out the kitchen window. 
Birds are singing. 
It was a beautiful wedding.