Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning

Some say that drinking alone is bad
But being alone is the excuse that I had
To drink heavily, watching a film that you’d hate
Though I forget the end, our hero’s fate

In the morning, my bladder and the light
Ally against the toxic, oppressive night
To liberate me from sticky, salted bed to floor
A refugee, a survivor of my latest civil war

Maybe my freedom could come in the shape
Of knock-off Special K instead of the grape
But mugs of breakfast tea don’t drown out the racket
The noise in my head, quite like getting ratted

Now I’m in Costa, staring out and writing
The coffee is bitter but there’s a lull in the fighting
The dogs and toddlers are cute and the sun’s a reminder
That chances only ever belong to the finder

So, at the risk of being ‘alone’ with my thoughts
And distrusting my bowels and balance of course
Having lost count of how many times I’ve felt this rough
Today I would like a nice stroll in the Clough

And maybe, for a while, there’ll be a short truce
To concentrate on bluebells and stepping over roots
And maybe, for a moment, my internal crowd
Will shut the fuck up and enjoy the shape of a cloud

 

May 2023

 

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