I drag my feet along the cold wooden floor,
Fingertips tracing the outline of shelter-
Searching for more of the brownish drink.
Blood pounded through me as glasses from earlier course through my veins, my body.
A stark reminder of the drunken man I am.
I pour two more glasses-
Then I throw this empty bottle,
Angry at the world for this drink has vanished.
Scattered items in front of me meet the same fate as the bottle.
My kids, oh my kids, watching, wailing, pleading, unsure of how to stop me.
My wife, oh how she is watching me, cursing me, calling out the things that I do.
But I, the drunken man,
Can no longer see my wrongs.
Who is she?
No ill words will make me better
Only the smooth touch of a woman's feather.
I am.
The Drunken Man.