When the Women Have Gone to Bed

Your hand reaches me down, the square bottle
of Jim Beam from your sister's drinks
cupboard. The glasses are on the shelf
Above, tumblers, too big for whiskey.
Choose the smallest and pour a measure
with your eye, the way you learnt in the bar
trade. The years have made you
generous, so the customers
are lucky. And you are the customer.

Me, I'm a slightly overflavoured
whisky, perfumed and rough, sour mash.
Under the tap take care. Let it run
steady before you proffer the glass.
It never works to undilute
from the bottle. Whisky's a short
never a thirst quencher, and drinking
from brimming tumblers is missing
the whole point, tasteless, dangerous.

Set down your glass and put away
the bottle. This is the last tonight.
Douse the lights in the kitchen. Carry
your glass back to that easy chair
Whose square arm holds nicely
Ashtray and drink. Fag lit, lift
Tanner's The Rain of Wonder, the chapter
on Hemingway. Sip, take a drag.

Remember this. You misunderstood me
if you think you need more, if you think of the next
glass before you start on this one.
I say, 'Drink me, be happy, read
til your mind wonders, then go to bed.'
If you reach for another, tomorrow night
I'll be different, a friend grown dangerous,
and so much emptier than you expect.