Twenty-nine paces

from the sofa to the goal; pull
the brass door-knob, turn left into the hall,
negotiate the passage to the kitchen.

The wine-box resides atop the fridge,
weighs lighter by the glassful. Lean
against the wall and squeeze the tap,

listen to the trickling of liquid Nirvana
jump aboard the Midnight Special,
howl your way to the end of the star-crossed line.


4.05 A.M.