Type Dancing

One night
while rambling
‘round Roppongi,
taking the tour of Tokyo,
not knowing when
to shun the shots
of sake pressed
upon me by my friends,
down Mogumbo’s
stumbling steps I slipped
and cracked my head.

Undaunted by
the bloody dent
I descended
to where some kind
soul staunched the flow
with a damp towel,
a ball cap,
and an ice cold brew.

The next morn,
co-workers, aghast
at the scabby slash
that showed through
thinning scalp,
gingerly iodined
and taped the
cut and wondered
why the night’s
itinerary included no trip
to the emergency room.

Why? I asked.
I thought the wet towel
and ball cap
and cold, cold beer
were medicine enough.