Full Moon Medication
#11 of Verse and Other Nonsense!
Just because your roommate has a good reason to drink every full moon doesn't make it any less awkward.
Full Moon Medication
I have a drinking problem
Which is my roommate, Ben.
He's moping in the kitchen,
For the moon is up again.
He's brought down all the Jager
And the boxiest of wine
And a greenish cup of absinthe
That smells of turpentine.
There are mixers by the gallon
Some combined with undue haste
Like cream and bloody marys
In a bubbling pinkish paste.
He's said the tastes get different
As his tongue begins to change,
So he's laid out a full spectrum
Carefully sorted and arranged.
Even though the drapes are closed
His breathing starts to quicken.
Below his clothes his muscles strain,
His fingers start to thicken.
On the left side of the table
He starts with shaking hands,
Taking shots of bourbon
As if caught with contraband.
His ears pull up and flicker
As he moves on towards the gin
His hair goes grey and thicker
As the changes all kick in.
Meeting his eyes, I see the flames
Of bloodlust brewing there,
Quickly doused with vodka
Which then coats his chest in hair.
"I'm sorry, man" He growls out
As he rips off his T-shirt.
The view's not bad, but this is not
The best of times to flirt.
He snaps his jaws and twists his neck
With bouts of feral rage
Kept quite at bay by his array:
A fuming liquid cage.
He's left to tour the world:
White Russians and Mai Tais,
Planning to get stumbling drunk,
Bloodlust unrealized.
His frame is growing larger,
And his face is growing out.
Human features rearrange
Into a lupine snout.
He's lapping up a dish of rum
With paws both on the table.
It's hard to drink beer like a wolf.
I'm surprised he's even able.
His hulking form still grows,
Panic turning into glee
As he downs a bowl of Aperol
And then looks up to me.
"You're such a friend," he belches,
Smile showing lethal fangs.
His breath could kill an elephant
But I hold back my harangue.
At least he's not a beast,
Even though he grows a tail.
He's just an alcoholic
Amply armed with tooth and nail.
He stumbles backwards on his feet
That raise up into paws.
It's a good thing there's no such thing
As werewolf drinking laws.
To poison such a beast
Would take a stunning feat indeed.
I shake my head as he imbibes
A final tun of mead.
"Now I'm okay." He smiles and waves
At the lamp next to me.
His arms reach out and pull me in,
Hugging most awkwardly.
He shifts his weight from paw to paw
The fumes all make me reel.
I lead him to the bathroom,
So that he can break the seal.
I turn the dial to comedy
And sit down on the couch.
He joins me in a moment
In an alcoholic slouch.
If he were sober maybe then
There could then be something more,
But for now I'm just a tiny friend
Enduring Pauly Shore.
Perhaps some night I'll join him,
And we'll both howl at the sky.
But I'm afraid of what would happen
To my liver if I try.
I wonder if a doc could fix him up
With new prescription meds,
Or what would happen if he switched
To smoking pot instead . . .