A drunk

may not necessarily be a drunkard –

the latter has overtones of the alcoholic.

This man was a drunk

(he may, indeed, have been a drunkard)

but in the paralysis of his drunkenness

his movements were balletic –

almost.

He was a tall, burly blonde man

in his forties, smartly-dressed –

perhaps an icon in his own environment.

But here, the drink had absolute control –

but absolutely no control –

of his manoeuverings.

He was endeavouring to cross the road

in a pas-de-trois –

himself, his drunken self and alcohol –

and as he tottered forward

his cajoling arms were semaphoring

the approaching traffic to slow down –

to leave him space

for his unplanned, untutored,

unexpected, unsuspected waywardnesses.

Having, now, negotiated his erratic rushes,

in the mirror can be seen the brake lights,

the impatience of the queuing traffic,

while still he teeters to the applauding jeers

of other drinkers, salving their daytime

racing losses – or burnishing their winnings –

in the evening sunshine.

And our drunk[ard]

tries to find his bearings

amidst the catcalls, the angry horns, the five-

foot pavement he attempts to mount.

Luckily, tomorrow will be another day.