Riding Bottle Rockets at the Rendezvous
Don’t spit champagne at people
unless
you want them to leave you alone.
It works.
Just be precious when you do it.
As you toss wine soaked napkin balls,
arrange your face in innocence
to that wet splat
against a bare back.
Corner-eye their culprit search.
Express too innocent, of course,
so they won’t allow the fun to someone else.
When they grouse,” Hey,”
simper, “What?”
Then bite your bottom lip.
There are no limits
to champagne frivolity,
acquiring friends,
and even a black pair of socks.
The laughter, the stares,
the amusing anecdotes.
Edward’s wife was not amused.
Ed was.
We toasted once
and then again
to that great old sex god in the sky.
“To Potation, may he fall to earth and inhabit our pants.”
Oh, champagne, you green bottled hot wave of tickle.
I love your mode of transportation.
Teetering, little giggles
and “Oopsy,” as bubbly spills.
Head, shoulder blades heavy at two
Legs don’t work.
So many new friends.
Offers to take me home.
Eddy poo.
“Oh, no you don’t,” warned Susie Ellen, my spoil-sport pal.
She doesn’t trust. Hates tickle.
HAPPY NEW YEAR![]()



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