Rum & Coke.

Image courtesy of @whileimout

This is winter-speak for I’m not really drinking, even though I remain unopposed to the idea of an otherwise good time; a double says, yes, without faux reservation I choose the city. Sure I’ll sing something if the next glass helps me forget all that tragic business today with the microchips marooned off the coast of a storied port, and the unrelated carnage of all the mass execution I performed with but several right clicks on a computer I imagine I too will soon hand back to the gods of IT; I’m sorry – I promised no blues or songs about heartbreak tonight and yet here I am waxing lyrical about surviving the markets another day or so. Say I went up with my poison and that lady right there in the glitzy jacket, would that be cool? Could I shimmy just a little and tremble with my eyes closed, and could I raindrop a single tear and pretend it’s cause I’m so jazzed I’m here with all the sharks: choosing again the city, to stumble across its loose neon, aim my tongue at the snowflakes, and squirm deep into history’s pocket for the party that never ends? Another, please, yeah, it’s a Wednesday tomorrow I think.