I do not want to write much about this post's poem, discretion is the best policy.
I've been listening to a lot of Kathrine Williams this past week so here is Cuckoo.
And this is In a Broken Dream.
Until next time.
Poem for C
Given
the economies
of
supermarket squash
and
the cheapest of vodkas,
it
had always been
how
much could he drink,
in
the shortest amount of time,
to
keep ahead of blacking out,
to
avoid the grey dawns
when
monochromatic
migraine
imitating aftermaths
immobilised
him in a space
where
he could do nothing
but
relive it all over again.
I
met him in the fragile truce of sobriety
that
he called his jigsaw days,
as
he placed his pieces
into
shapes that just might work,
into
patterns that had eluded him on the drink.
Some
events, he confided, never end,
so
you have to find different ways of getting on with it.