Drink

Pot-bellied in the dark
My mouth, dry as a chalk wall, soft as dogskin.
Four o'clock
And the rain still tapping on the window,
Still patting on the slabs below.

Once again, this is the last time.
Eyes spin swiftly past the ceiling, the top of the cupboard, curtain
rail.
And tomorrow my toungue is swollen, my head on fire,
And tonight all my tomorrows are dry.