this one time in cancun

tequila has a way
of separating one
from his money, his
soul, his memory
and clothes.
its liquid burn
is a signal
to beware of what's
to come around
the next turn.
everyone has a story
they vaguely
remember, the details
blurred by the drink
and distance between
then and now.
you have a story too,
the one where you
are curled on the cold
bathroom tiles
of a Mexican hotel
room, while your friend
waits for you to be
right back.
and how you tipped
the maid fifty dollars
because you had
become a human
piñata and was broken
open wildly by
the club of those
last three shots.