Maybe my sloshing id baits my tongue
with a barbed blue joke; perhaps a
party
angler trolls up the President or Pope.
Regardless, I open my mouth: a weird
fox-pawed, cock-tailed squid squeezes
past gullet and palate, lips and teeth,
and in beaky, inky calamari glory slaps
wetly on the shiny parquet floor.
Jaw clenched against further cephalopody,
I murmur clammy apologies as the bodies
ogle their vodka martinis, the ceiling,
ignoring
icky stinking tentacles creeping over
loafers,
up waxed legs, damply tweaking Calvin
Kleins.
Our host smiles like a fish in formaldehyde,
gushes about the weather as the squid
wriggles
gluey gray stains across her Sacramucca
sofa.
Finally, my cocktail monster chills,
wiggles nimble
feet and flees for warmer waters under
the bridge.