The weekend has come again.
Bitter words and liquor are loosely
rationed throughout the room in unison,
both equally influencing the other to release their potent sting.
I sit among them, indulging in both conversation and consumption
yet experiencing a great dread of their interactions and the respective responses.
conversation and consumption has surpassed ration and rationalisation
and the rolled up notes are as spent as the sins they secured.
I cast a nervous glance at the clock on the wall.
It's almost time.
Is it my turn to speak?
Another mouthful to avoid such discomfiture.
Another hour passes and plans are picking up pace.
People reach for their coats,
making a raucous racket
as they make their way to the door.
I also make for the door,
coat and bottle
in trembling hand.
to a reticent and reluctant
cacophony of error.
And so we disappear into the night,
Their noise polluting the air, I grip my bottle tight.
Looking down at the threshold at my feet,
I just want to turn and retreat.
I wish I could return to a bed less exciting.
The cold night suddenly does not seem so inviting.
But Satan's serpents circle the room
and I cannot make my excuses.
I take solace, knowing that as long as I do not kick out
I will not be bit.
Besides, morning must surely come soon.