Princeton Summer

I woke up face down at the east end of Nassau Street.
It was one o'clock Princeton summer.
I rolled over. The air was steamy.

Flat on my back, I watched the clouds.
Pink clouds, forming, then breaking apart.
I wasn't dreaming. They came from the factories.

Last I remembered, I had drank three boilermakers.
That was Friday. I was a block away
from the apartment, where three of us lived.

I was hung over. The pink clouds
hung over me. The sky was pot-luck.
The ground was hanging over the sky.