Of Drunken Dreams and Sober Lips
Morning's golden eye peers throughAn unfamiliar window.
Sleep flees like the morning dew;
I'm dragged from rough motel sheets.
Standing with rank, cheap, coffee in hand
I'm shivering in the December chill
Cursing this "wintery wonderland"
Wondering why I'd traveled north at all.
Half open suitcase along the wall,
Rummaged through; clothes and things lie flung aside.
Yesterday's clothes, all piled on the floor.
Now, time to repack. All of it. Quickly.
Gathering it up and stuffing it all in
I find I'm putting the now cold coffee down and
Warming up instead with a shot of gin
Before continued pre-checkout drudgery.
I shave and wash in freezing water;
Last night's beer makes excellent breakfast.
In the carpark, bags in hand, I loiter
Just a moment, then, all packed up, I go.
I'm following frosty country roads
Through naked forest and across frozen streams,
And unless the beat-up car can't take the load
I won't stop for anyone or anything
Because that's the way travel really is.
For when you holiday with no one else
You slowly see that something's amiss.
The trees race by in unending blurs
Impassive like your rock-carved face.
You'll find yourself wishing it all back to the way it was:
To still be drunk on dreams behind stone-cold-sober lips.
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