poem

Got a bit drunk the night before my surgery.
Paperwork said not to drink.

I thought, if I don’t wake up,
and don’t visit my favorite pub and have
at least one Manhattan, what’s the point
of not having a damn drink.

So we went to the pub.

The next morning I told the anesthesiologist,
“I had a beer last night.”

“Yea? What time was that?”

“Around seven.”

“You’ll be fine.” He smiled.

“And by a beer I mean a few drinks.”

“Eh. You’ll be fine.”

And I was.

I don’t ask permission to live my life.

-M. Taggart

Cheers. To thine own self be true.