Clockwork

Like clockwork, nine comes
    (as time is a matter of clocks)
And I climb on my stool
Nestled in a bubble of cigarette smoke
    (and familiar, commiserating eyes).
He pours my first round as though he was born to,
    (though perhaps he was)
warm, so the liquid can burn going down...

But two, three more rounds
And it settles around my heart like
A delicate, protective cocoon.
    And then nothing burns,
For I've gone numb from the chest down
And those ruddy maroons
    (blood, anger, desire)
Fade to pastel pink.

Every once in a while,though,
I glimpse some star-struck lovers,
Or a nice-looking girl in a green jacket,
    blond, blond hair and legs for days,
Or someone pushes the wrong buttons
    on the jukebox (oh, A5)...

Reality penetrates the amniotic puddle of gin,
Shortens my breath, makes my heart skip beat,
And everything re-materializes so that
No amount of liquor could crack my spine again,
    (there is no needle big enough for that epidural)
And I walk back to the hotel,
    a perfect night ruined again,
A cigarette or three trying to realign the water-colour.

I eye the street lamp as it flickers, so,
Of course, I miss the curb,
And I freshen the print of my face in the
    roughened concrete.


That damn curb gets me every time.