December Air

December Air

The cold December air bites at his nerves,
Rousing a body ready to shut down.
By himself, in a drunken stupor,
He staggers home to his humdrum wife,
Whistling to the tune of Don’t Let Life.

He doesn’t even know what time it is,
He still has a beer bottle in his hand,
And can’t see where he’s putting his feet.
But drunk, tired, alone and lost, he walks
Through the torture of the cold night frost.

The journey is brought to an abrupt halt,
By police in a van who ask him his name.
With concentration he stands upright
Straightens his vision, and murmurs “Sam”.
In this state, he doesn’t give a damn.

He drunkenly tells them he’s nearly home,
So they nod in accord and let him go.
The familiar path continues.
To him it’s always the same old shite.
Quiet drinking creates not a fight.

As he begins to find his own way home,
The cold December air keeps up the bite.
But with the fresh air waking him up,
He runs like a sprinter to the finish line
And he finds himself smiling. This life is mine.