Time And The Drinking Man Poem by Richard George

An hour can seem a minute
with the cognac clock, or a minute an hour,
the gallows of tomorrow next
year, the can't wait treat sweet dreams.
But when you wake hung
over, and your job's at nine
you clutch at every second -
or last night's teat. Suzy Grave
has wheeled you down the aisle
and you're full sail in her willowy wine-bottle figure.
Every day you drink you grow
more like her: your hair, while others
bald, is blooming, luxuriant,
her pert little breasts brush yours
and in response, your liver swells.
Once a month you stop, afraid;
tasting blood.