Hangover: A Sonnet

The savage dance wasn't what we imagined
and the ancient warnings didn't make us free.
A smell of gas fed the sorry engine,
for better or worse, of the end of history.
Presidents came and went, dictators fell,
countries gagged on markets and grew fat,
or consumed their children in war and fire. All
churned and revolved around fear and desire. Yet
we tried to be wise, in a drunken world,
though only drunkenness seemed the appropriate way
to fit and flounder together. Both young and old,
we saluted the night even as it broke to day,
and, startled, looked at each other, disheveled, sweaty,
like gamblers putting down their final bets.