I awoke this morning with my headache lodged
beneath the lid of an antique player piano.
Admittedly, I do not recall much about last night,
except that a half-drunk Manhattan on ice
was needlessly heaved at a short-fused bluesman.
After numerous attempts to liberate my head
with brute force and tougher talk, I gave up.
Instead, I belted out a song of automated apology
into the tuneless dawn, as if this change
in key might somehow let me out.
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