Four Glasses

Sour breaking the skin on my tongue.

Dry throat, fizzing, trickling a pungent sweet, glued back.

The sharp iron saliva in the corner of the mouth, behind the gums,

Creates a warm bath beneath my eyes, the colour of diamonds and earwax.

All the nights of abstinence, sobering fresh, clear and righteous.

Against rich oak and sodden snakebite beermats,

Designated driver.

–

Summertime taught me to use a straw, makes the bubbles smoother.

It quenches, replenishes, refills, down to half and level glistening.

The lads sway across my table licking their amber glasses, shy boozers

Giggling cherry cheeked like rabble listening

To Tame Impala, rocking amongst the sober-chooser.

A lime slice nestled with a lemon boyfriend missing.

The cordial is thick.

–

Last of the syrup settles at the base like a sour liquor.

Neck it, we laugh like wild coyotes in against the golden sunset.

Streaming through the panes. I wince…