Half In The Bag Poem by John Weber

You once dragged five cops to my house,
bursting out laughing as I hid like a mouse,
plucked in the wings like a poisoned grouse.

You were drenched, wearing one shoe,
looking as if you fell in the stew,
tossing a shrug when you pressed on through.

I begged for a while, hoping to convey
how much your whirlwind stirred disarray
all over my clandestine survival foray.

You coughed a chortle behind bloodshot eyes,
a true kindred soul I could never despise,
if silence could rule as our sole compromise.

The constables proved a relentless sort
they were just dying to drag you to court,
rapping the glass as patience ran short.

Huddled in the dark, ten paranoid souls
trying to duck underneath the patrols,
liberty trumping all other goals.

With the daylight came our salvation,
freedom granting us blissful elation.
We’d survived without condemnation.

Sometime later, my slumber was stirred,
open my eyes to a scene most absurd:
your car perched on the fence like a bird!

Half in the bag, you tried digging out,
frustrated curses pointing your shout
toward my weary door without doubt.

I laughed as I rolled back to sleep,
amazed you racked your car so steep
topping that snow bluff like a heap.