It is comfortable in this colored glass
among the barley, malt and meed.
To sit here in the place my father made for me.

Though warm bed beckons me to fall,
down comforter and pillow, wife's embrace....
I sit here...Still...
until late with weary eyes
I curse my retched luck that such a man like I
should feel so loved.
This faulted man my father made.

Drink!!!

and drink I will
Until I'm fit to let myself back in,
a clumsy thief in my own house,
making way with measured step
until I'm standing at the foot of my own future.

Is it his father that he sees?
or just the man that made him.