Medical Equipment Squeeze between the party noise. "What's happenin', Jeffro?" Smile. Mouth-corners sink into your slack cheeks. T,a,p a glass. I smell the jack from here. Bassoon voice playing a 45 on 33 1/3. "Getting ROWdy." And nod. I lift glass and straw. Hollow cheeks get hollower. You nod at enough. I sit down, down, down A chair too-comfortable next to that $6000 sittin'-set-of-wheels you're so proud of. (When alone my brother and I -- "Screw" insurance companies and the price of medical equipment. And a too-shallow dive at the Gorge) But your shit-eatin' grin and a coupla beers always feel better again, then you mentioned my Christmas tree you fell-drunk into then hid behind the couch before my mother downed the stairs just a year ago.