Saturday, May 07, 2005

Another Booze Inspired Poem About Divinity and Love--Sort of

The truth I Tell as Lies

Nostalgic for the day
my wife wakes me in my old
leather armchair and takes
the scotch and soda
from my tired hand to walk
me to bed. We'll
undress me and she'll
crawl in tight and with grace
will say how good I smell despite
cologne being a bottle of Cutty Sark,
or highland single malt. She'll
say she loves me in the same tone
as when we spoke about my secondhand lovers
and her affair with the chemist.
Then I'll know there is a sin
for which hail marys won't save,
so I confess.
But the lies I regret
as truth told in first person
in some pub in Derry,
jobless, pennyless, happy
that the time to write is consumed
by her love are all simply nostalgia
for tommorrow that fade
when she pulls the string
on my bedside lamp. And in bed
we lament on the outcome of all this,
and once again, confess
our love
before passing
into unconsciousness.


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