Tequila On The Richter Scale Poem by Taylor Graham

'rescuers tunneled into a demolished hotel
and in what had been the barroom found...'

He couldn't remember
how much he'd had
before the room went reeling.
Sauza never hit him quite that hard
but when he woke, everybody
including the ceiling
was passed out on the floor.
He called for beer.
The barkeep didn't stir.
And so he helped himself
to the closest bottle, and then
a little more. He finished off
the rubia, and then some tinto
for its rosy
afterglow. It wasn't like
he was stealing: the drinks
were clearly on the house, and he
was way past feeling.

They burrowed in through rubble,
15 stories down. A chink
in a jammed-tight door revealed
this void.

And then they heard a moan,
a sigh, a snore. Not a bottle
had survived; no bar,
no barkeep anymore, but only
Julio, with a hangover
that measured 8.4.