Drunk at Midnight

He kicks a lamppost as he passes my window.
Anger thrives in the mould of his sorrow.

Rain takes him by the shoulders;
drives him home again.

Tormented between pub and bed,
a drama is rehearsing in his head.

Who is the lamppost; who is the boot berating?
A lost woman or a woman waiting?

Gerard Rochford

If you've any comment on this poem, Gerard Rochford would be pleased to hear from you.