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Poem

The Alcoholic 
An hour or so, but my mind keeping looking back to a past 
as trying to find the moment when things went wrong and 
contentment escaped. It easy to remember simple things 
like when a winter my mother couldn´t get the fire going 
and through in my wooden fire truck, swearing at me for 
crying. But that is not the problem, because I understood 
when the room warmed and frost roses on windows thawed. 
Adults can hurt children more than they understand, when
 in 1945 my father came home from the sea, I was sick in bed, 
tuberculosis, my father pretended he didn´t  know this sickly 
thing on the sofa and said who’s child is this? And ever since my 
life has been blighted…. Yes I know, you will say put the past 
behind you. But my sense of inadequacy was so strong I found as 
an adult that the only thing that made feels equal was alcohol. 
So I became drunk, if a tame one I never drink during the day 
but in the evening when despair knocks on my mind I drink to still 
the voice telling my I´m a fraud a working class fool thinking he is 
a poet.  Alcoholism is not easy it doesn´t really exist as it is 
an indicator of the unresolved. I write this and it is ten in the morn
but already I´m counting the hours when I can have a drink.

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