The Flip-Side Of The Coin Poem by Matthew Coombe

Sundays evenings at home
can be like the dentists
waiting room,

listening to the shrill shrieking
of the drill
upstairs.

It is on these nights
that eight hours sleep
passes too quickly.

The turning of a page.
A vase falling,
striking the floor.

Dark mornings
moan in my veins
like smoke.

But not right now.
Now is the time to let
the beads of silver
slip down the beer bottle.

A time to recline deeper
in this chair
and doze

through a movie
where I really haven’t a clue
what’s going on.