The Alcoholic

The Alcoholic

The Street is his home
A wayside bench his bed
A tattered coat his only blanket
And an arm to pillow his head.

He jolts awake in the early morn,
His body craves for a drink;
A small sip would soothe his nerves
So his mind can clearly think.

Today on the dawn of a new day
He ponders his fate once more
And renews his vow to change his life
As he has many times before.

But he needs a place of quietude
A place where he just might
Seek the advice of many a friend
Who truly understand his plight.

So he shuffles over to the local bar
And waits patiently by the door;
He'll be the first to walk in
The last to leave the floor.

He staggers in on unsteady feet
Orders a shot of whiskey and rye,
The first of many to come that night
His sustenance to live by.

A soothing balm to the nerves
And its only his first drink;
Such pleasure, Oh such relief
Now at last he can think.

But first he must take account
Of funds he has in store
So he can pace his drinks today
To last the night and more

He spies his friend of yesterday;
Ah! some free drinks will come his way;
They'll talk of what he must do
Rather than squander his life away.

The night is spent in much earnest talk
Of past and present affairs,
Of things that one cannot change
But none, of what the future bears.

The time is all but gone tonight
Now it's time to go to bed
It's time to seek a way-side bench,
Than to think of life instead.

~Anwaar N Hassan~

More Poems By Anwaar

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