the drunkards downstairs

from upstairs
I hear them laughing, now done
with officers' business, they uncork
whiskey and scotch, I hear the clink of
glasses and loud voices.
even the old one, the Jewish gentleman,
tells raucous stories sprinkled with
words I never could have imagined
coming out of his mouth
(except in his former drunken youth),
the other Jewish grey-hair lapsed into
speaking in a Scottish accent and
they exchanged stories of Nairobi
slums where one can rent a motel room
by the hour, not the day.
cautiously, I opened the door to
go downstairs, seeing empty liquor
bottles strewn about the table, feet up,
paperwork long done, they will
soon be asleep,
these drunkards.