Brett Evans

 

 

 

Reading Sean O’Brien in the Bath

On the first floor of an ex-council house
this fat, pink alkie reads O’Brien in the bath.
At his shoulder the pint glass of cider mocks

his sweating face. The cold tap drips – he lifts
his eyes from the book – for how long
it’s dripped he’s not clear. Each drop

a year: he counts through teens and twenties,
stops at mid-thirties, leans and halts the drops
with one twist. I could write a poem, he thinks,

if I could break habits, routines, totter
forward, baby-like and lift a title to work from.
He’s kidding himself of course; a day off the sauce

is a year on a chain gang – the hammer
chipping away. His reverie is smashed
as our hero wakes to the fact

that something is amiss; had he hauled his bulk
out from the tub just to take a piss?

 

 

Brett Evans lives, writes and drinks in his native north Wales. His poems have appeared in various magazines and he was a runner up in the 2012 Cardiff International Poetry Competition. He co-edits Prole.

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