Forgive my sophomoric assaults,

my drunken aim.

Overlook my broken podium.

Do not steal me Lord

from this orthodontic gauntlet,

only assure me you know its end.

The answers are printed upside down

in the back of the text book, I say

but they’re preoccupied, typing profanities

into their calculators.

I tell them judgment is coming,

that it swore it would be here

in the next hour or so,

that the last 10% of the bottle

is backwash.

Ever feel like the designated driver

in a car full of drunks, I ask,

but no one communicates

through Morse code anymore.