Nick pours another whiskey-coke with lime
before I ask, but I guess they know me here.
I’m thinking. If all I know for sure’s the time,
and it’s 2 AM, then days aren’t split up clear.

Nobody’s asked, and I’m just guessing here,
but if Tuesday morning’s mixed with Monday evening
and it’s only 2 AM, then how’s it clear
when night’s cut off? But it’s last call, so I’m leaving.

Maybe it’s Tuesday now, not Monday evening.
It’s hard to say, since even clocks can’t tell—
but the music’s cut off now, so I make like I’m leaving.
Nick pours me one more, heavy: “Last-call well?”

“Two,” I say. “It’s hard, Nick. Clocks can’t tell
whether it’s morning.” He nods. Tonight’s been good,
and the pours are heavy, and it’s a decent well,
and I don’t want more than anybody should,

I think, and morning or not, tonight’s been good.
Could stay that way. Here’s hoping, like I do,
that I don’t want more than anybody should.
It’s enough to sit here, dizzy from losing you.

It’s enough to rest a while. Here’s hoping I do.
I clink my drinks, two whiskey-cokes with lime.
Both spill. I’m laughing, I’m dizzy. I’m losing you,
and the only thing I know for sure’s the time.