A Date With Jim Morrison

If Jim Morrison were here, draped in soiled clothes,

I’d pour us two shots,

Preferably under priced, gut-rot whiskey

to speed up the conversation.

We’d write on napkins, on used paper goods

about the ‘08 election, the economy crash.    

We’d call this society troubled, ripped,

Abusive toward thoughtfulness.

I’d read him his book, chuckle at the line

Why do I drink? So I can write poetry.

Maybe I’d disclose to him my recent arrest

And for once enjoy telling the story.

I’d ask him if he’d mind saying a prayer

tainted with his kind of glory.

He’d answer that I’d asked too much of him -

Silence, until a pressed whiskey gargle beckoned the sunrise.