Self-serving plans, rewarded

An uneven rhythm

You can always tell a drinker

By the way they tackle the glass

No subtle sips

Only a life affirming gulp

As though they’re just been saved

Re-christened

Just as a light falling rain

Is devoured by plant life

Yet is wasted on concrete

Just as a half left glass

Is a crime

A simple scan around a restaurant

Reveals the ten percent.

I knew what she was

As I had been one (ever to be)

And was more aware of the signs now

Than when I’d been amongst it.

So we played the game awhile

I tested her, without letting on

And she danced

The dance

And while I knew all the moves

I forgave her

Those gracious faults.

As that’s all I had wanted

Without the lectures

From those who stand on columns

Gazing down

Eliciting acidic ventures

In return.

So I encouraged her to get drunk

Though it took only two short sentences

Giving her sweet freedom

And allowed her into my home

And soon,

Bed

Only because I knew

What she needed.

Had she not been

A drinker

The dinner would have

Ended with coffee

Oddly,

I allowed her

To take advantage of me

As it was affirmation

That she required

Made more powerful through booze

Though others

Did not see it this way

Or any other way

A charge

Difficult to shake

Action,

Impossible to undo

Though ultimately

Regretted.

Participants with other issues

And agendas

Came into play

Good deeds are lamented

And self-serving plans, rewarded

And I learnt                                                                     

That the game (or dance) is too fast

And complex

For any of us to comprehend

Let alone control.

By the time

The trial began

I barely knew a thing.




More Poetry.

The Drunkard's Progress - by Nathaniel Currier (1846)