Broken Gin at Breakfast

This morning, whilst preparing breakfast,
I broke a gin bottle.
Something happened, it fell off the kitchen side,
And it lay there smashed on the floor where it did reside

But what’s strange is that despite it being oddly shaped,
And reasonably small.
I tend to catch…ninety nine point…three per cent.
Of anything that falls.
Which is MUCH better than when I was small,
Because back then my success rate was obscure.

So, after my matured reflexes has slipped me once more,
I began to clean up the mess left on the floor.
Like an adult, I took a carrier bag and filled it up nicely,
And like a child, I picked up the pieces ever so lightly.
And although my skin is much more coarse and firm in structure,
I was in fear of the glass making my skin rupture.

Despite the bottle being empty,
Whilst I cleared up the glass,
I was stunned by the sweet vaporous gas.
That my acute sense of smell would sing,
And remind me it was the smell of gin.
As a child the smell would overwhelm my senses
With sin, my throat would dry, and my eyes would sting.
But now the sick poison had never smelled so sweet.

And so appealing to my sense’s curiosity,
I picked up a shard, and gripped it firmly.
Surprised that it’s previously hard edged vapour
Didn’t burn me, or my eyes, or spear my throat by surprise.
Nor did the glass impale, or cut me,
My curiosity consumed with gluttony,
Decided there was no time to waste.
And so, by licking the fragmented glass, did taste.

I then realised I’d just wasted time out of mine hour,
Because the gin…again did taste sour.
And so, with my throat dry, and my tongue disdained,
I realised that some things never change.

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed