the confessional booth

my friend Jimmy,

feeling glum and

in a confessional mood,

tells me that

there was a bad

stretch of time in his history

when

he woke up with fast women,

most nameless,

and drank

too many martinis,

danced the night away

until the soles

of his shoes broke.

it was a rollercoaster

ride of hangovers

and fragile hearts and visits

to the free clinic

for a healing dose.

i'm not proud of those days,

he told me,

but in truth they were

a lot of fun.

each night a mystery,

the mystery solved, and then

doing it all over

again. i sort of miss looking 

for my pants 

in the early morning fog

of a strange house,

and clicking on my key fob

to find my car.