Strong drink –
on the bare table a neat vodka,
Innocently transparent as pure water,
Shimmers before you, with your fence of bone
(Stake shoulders, propping arms) set up around it,
As if, out there alone,
The spirit needed body to defend it.
From where I stand, though, I can count the cost
(The soured breath, sickly flush and hollow chest)
You pay, at forty-five, for what you savour.
It fortifies, calms the stomach, and yet still
– Alas! greybeard cadaver –
Consumes the body as pure spirit will.
Consider, as you waste, how we are stewards
Of our bodies, yes, yet strangely how you thrive
On the sick body politic your words
Bite into as you’re bitten: how your thirst
For truth keeps you alive,
Writhing in anger, choking on disgust.