Fairytale of Duckworth

We killed the bottle in an hour and

only disagreed on one thing:

some language that has not aged well (at least

compared to the wine)

in both of our favourite holiday song. 

            It’s the characters talking, not Shane.

I can’t remember what exactly we settled on.

It was the first snow, and my all-seasons were 

already not fit for the summer, let alone

trying to get up Prescott. 

I stayed over and waited on the couch 

for you to invite me up;

something you mercifully did in the morning,

when I had drool caked on my face,                                            

last night’s drugs icicling off the corners

of my nose,

and I had looked the most un-fuckable

I’ve ever looked. 

It didn’t last long, 

but I think our bodies made the snow melt—

all those poor suckers up at 8 shoveling,

should’ve tried our method instead. 

My tank on empty, I exclaimed: “classic downtown, 

some skeet must’ve siphoned it all.”

Not willing to admit I’d been running on zero

for two days now; 

I badly quoted Hunter S. Thompson’s belief 

that a car can go for miles on nothing

if you drive fast enough and have the radio loud.

I said a small prayer under my breath

as I pulled out

to at least make it up the hill. 

By the grace of God (or Hunter S.) … I did—

even had enough to idle for 20 minutes

in the drive-thru of Tim’s. 

Coffee now in hand, I got in the door 

and set on properly learning Fairytale of New York

in preparation for our upcoming duet 

at that week’s karaoke,

something we drunkenly agreed on while sipping 

our second, or third bottle.

I arrived to your point (if I hadn’t already)

((or was it my point??))

that it’s probably best to avoid controversial language

in Christmas-related things. 

Thursday came—I went—you didn’t. 

And, besides a freak Celebrity Sobeys run in

a few months later, 

that was the last night we ever saw

each other.