I had been away for three weeks
And my flat was in mourning,
Melancholic dust on the TV set
And loam of rejection on the book shelf,
It cheered up when I opened a window and spoke softly.
On the kitchen table spots of red in
A forsaken wineglass, filled it with
Soapy water and put it in the sink.

Opened the fridge, two tins of tuna
And a bottle of wine. Uncorked it,
Lovely aroma, found a clean glass,
Polished it, the way I’ve seen barmen do,
Filled it to the brim and drank.
Shrugged off the nonsense said, at the clinic,
Where ex-drunks had tried to convert me
To the sullen existence
Of meekly accepting the arid life.