Swaying is his natural state
sea legs he calls it
as he returns the little
tumbler of booze
to its spot in the kitchen
cupboard, complete with
oversize jam jar lid

I don’t want to
interrupt him
I would move heaven
to keep his nest silent
and earth
to still the tremors
that rumble our floors
and stairs and
the hall outside our bedrooms

The tumbler is a
magic act kept private
always partly full
no mystery:
the daily bottle of Dewars
hidden somewhere safe
will testify to that

He does not ascribe
to humour
the discrete nips
a gentleman sneaks
in his own home
another of the perks
of being a veteran
and having a house

The same goes for
his barely repressed
temper simmering
like steel cut porridge
simmering overnight
on low heat
in a lidded pot

We are all drowning
in this house
in a lidded tumbler
containing heavily
processed water
in his case
one drop is all
it takes