Sock Free Hideaway

BEATS OF LOVE 

145. Ode to Beer by Me 

Little Easter folk came to be.
That only you could to see.
I rallied round by drinking beer.

But me, you could now barely hear.

Warning sign number one was full on
Distracted, when thudding onto the living room floor.
Or did you mistake the armchair for a door?
As confidence vanished on the floor.
The remote is still in your now shaky hand
as these little folks got easy to understand.

Warning sign two was a right to-do:
You turned the gas on, pedal to the metal.
The scent was gone, You never knew—
Melting your plastic electric kettle.
Still, I poured a beer and hid the hobs.

There was no sign three, just a sudden smash.
An unexpected, almighty crash.
Mistaking the rubber plant, massive and tall,
For something to hold you and break your fall.


Then spooning down hospital food in a blur,
As things quickly faded from what they were.
First, went the home where you no longer live.
Then went the strength that your legs used to give.
Hoping to escape the bounds of the bed,
You pressed against my hand, but were told instead:
Your legs are as useful to you as sand.
That final, lingering hope was dead.


Now the one-to-one care that's barely there
A youthful social worker now dreads our calls
almost as much as the tired hospital staff,
when asked to get another round of beers in
dread yours

Was it the little folk's dark intent
that you quit the beer for Lent?