The Toasting Ghost Poem by Glenn Bagshaw

As I strolled near the Humber River,
late at night, the stars hung out.
Sprawled in sky-high pub they bickered,
-loitered-liquored- moon-run after-hours club.

The waters in their banks swigged, teeming.
Yes, swift they flowed, but swifter came
recoil of pulse that pistolled through me
as slugs of blood- hit range of veins.

My head was swimming but I, so sober,
now paced with moonlight, left and right.
My stride the beer-dry waters mirrored.
I paused to pose- wet reflection might
now convince me that was error,
my dancing-deep mistake that night.

Then keg for casket, rim-full forever,
Forget this wet one, as you will.
Drinking water after taverns
makes the drinker, even sober,
in excess, brimmed-over ale-ing-
makes him last-call deathly ill.