They say you only turn thirty-three once
but for Bill, we celebrated twice.
Here's this leftover keg from Saturday --
let's kick it on a Tuesday.
Full shots of tequila chase our plastic cups
of Bud Light and knives are tested,
not thrown. While we wait for pizza dough
to rise, dogs, mostly domesticated, slide
across hardwood and end
in a growl. Tommy walks among those
beasts, in graying degrees of drunk,
while the rest of us find holds
on couches and floors, beer in one hand,
pizza in the other, watching parallel universes
exist obliviously to each other on the final season
of Lost, pausing now and then for patchless smoke
breaks, trips down shared history lane, and an ice
cream cake scripting "Your Bear Hat is Awesome,"
a phrase only a slice of us understand. The candles
are beer steins and Kelly has to set them on fire
because Tommy is making a video including me
failing with the lighter. The night idles
away to quiet two a.m. chit chat
about fake boobs and hairy asses and one last
hit before we drift apart to a house asleep
on the first day of Bill's thirty-third year.
:)
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