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