“Gin and tonic please,”
He says to me.
Though I know it well
By his dollars that flutter
Like fallen leaves to my gutter,
That trough we ‘tenders call ‘the well’.
This glass before me like his brain.
Ice cubes the cells that remain
With gaps good Gordon fills.
Tonic that whispers and bubbles;
Jokes making light of his troubles-
While I keep and eye on his bills.
