Once Over Lightly

HIS SIGHT was below par, like that of a gent in a tale from R. F. of New Mexico. This fellow had spent a long evening in a bar. Emerging from the pub, he collided with a lamppost. "My fault, sir," he apologized, and then promptly bumped into a mailbox. "I beg your pardon, madam," he mumbled. A few more steps, and he tripped over a fireplug. "So sorry, little boy," he muttered. Then he sat down on the street curb, telling himself, "Might as well wait here until the crowd goes by."