I feel it boil in my belly
as these fingers grip the flask

it was a birthday-present
from an old, old friend…

I wonder how long it will take
before they order an intervention.

I have spent so long
honing my craft, I cannot afford
to have my choices compromised.

Go on, ****** me back into that hell
of plastic chairs and unlocked doors,
headboards bolted to the floor,
dead names carved in windows.

I will not go gentle;
allow this debauchery to go on.

I can see the canopies,
the gentle shades of foliage
disguise crumbling facades.

Leave me with my drink and willow trees,
after all, whom do I harm?