He gave up drinking the day his father died;

found dead in his chair

a fag, limp, in his hand.

A can of bitter

sat on the nightstand.

 

On his birthday he thought of his Dad:

maddened by the swirling rain clouds;

drowned.

 

His ghost clung to the walls,

as the speeches were called,

the champagne poured -

no thanks, not for me -

he said cheerfully;

the old man's face

reflected grimly in the glass.

 

How could he touch

another drop of the stuff?

Their jovial smiles,

hollow and mild;

an idiot's damp glee.

He says:

no thanks, not for me.