Alcohol And Memory Poem by Robert Melliard

When I drink beer, I think of English pubs,
the rustic kind,
with beams and brass and benches.

With gin, I picture how old uncle Jack
mixed Christmas G and Ts in giant glasses.

When into wine, my mind stays here in Spain:
slim, tanned brunettes and cool bodegas...

When rum's the game, I dream of Mexico:
cocktails, palm trees, endless beaches.

Whisky takes me back to Scottish glens,
but also to some drunken, mad excesses.

Why do I drink and think so much?

My brother didn't leave life with a whimper:
when he committed suicide,
it was more like a nuclear bang,
right here, next to us.