She slammed the thirteenth 
shot of Stoli, 
slurred,
sleeved her mouth
and fell to frozen tile. 

Pattern, redundant and blue-cold, 
pierced her skin. 
It pinched 
her concrete nerves, smoked 
some joints and woke her senses. 
This prodigal shock 
was the fourteenth shot. 

The sun returned. 

She waved her vodka breath 
to yellow air and stood, 
untangled her serpentines, 
rubbed herself free of 
stark impressions, 
faced the ultimate glare. 

She staggered away 
with a skylight stare, 
bad luck on her sleeve. 

This fall to the floor 
was the best trip she'd ever taken. 

©2000 Peggy Putnam Owen