I went to the bar,
I wasn’t a lush,
though my head’s still not clear,
just a pile of mush.

I went for resolution
to thoughts in my head,
not for a suicidal man
longing for me in his bed

Quite sane was I,
Though of him I was sure
that even cases of prozac
wouldn’t prove a good cure.

What got in the way
of some temporary love?
Perhaps here's the reason
I’ve not before thought of:

Normalcy seeking,
which is futile at best,
gets much further hindered
when my blouse
     exposes my chest.