A Poem

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Are You Done?

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A drink in tow, a hand to spare
I plainly deigned to hold your hair
Back from your face, then, as you puked
Into the planter at the fair.

So freely and without rebuke
You vomited, as without care
Out in the fragrant summer air
Near carousels and loopdy-loops.

And since I haven't heard from you
In three long weeks, I think must there
Be someone different, someone new,
Who plainly deigns to hold your hair.

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Somewhere between Frost, Bukowski, and a dirty limerick, I think.