My old reptile loves the scotch,

the way it drugs the cells that keep him caged

in the ancient swamps of the brain.

He likes crawling out at parties

among tight-skirted girls. He takes

the gold glitter of earrings

for small yellow birds wading in shallow water

the swish of nyloned legs for muskrats in the reeds

But he moves awkwardly in the hardwood forests

of early American furniture, stumbles on grassy

throw rugs, and the yellow birds

flutter toward the foggy horizons of the room.

Out of date, he just can't swing

so slides back always to his antique home,

the stagnant, sobering water.

David Bottoms, "Crawling Out at Parties"