Poem

It is possible that I didn’t think this through
Dusty stories and reddened mornings blinding me to truth.
Yesterday it was three glasses of sweetened wine
And a whisky chaser, but in the morning I was fine.

I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.

Alcoholics drink gin in the mornings and shout,
I dream of twisting mazes with no way out.
Calming shaking, sweaty palms from terrors in the night
With a shot of comfort, you can’t say that’s not right.

I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.

I am, at last, happy now to be alone
No grabby, needy wishing you would phone.
What’s one more after the life that we almost had?
One more for almost mother, left by almost dad.

I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.

If you trap yourself completely inside your own brain
It is these small escapes that help you to stay sane.
A drink alone gains you looks from cornered eyes
But who wants others there when the inhibition subsides.

I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.

I’m proud after all, I fell but still I do not call.