THE BLUE-GOLD CAN:
Half-hidden, in shade, on this roasting day,
sitting at the foot of a hedge-covered wall.
Grey stubble, torn clothes; most revealing of all,
the familiar blue-gold can in his fist.
I see that he sees me, as I walk past:
vestige of a smile, obscured by grime.
Compelled to respond, I cannot resist:
I give him a jaunty “thumbs up” sign,
for, after all, I think it no crime.
And something within me rises
in sympathy; to be deliriously
drunk, in this solitary way.
The amber fluid, the blue-gold can,
rolling back the horizons of the day.
I remember those days, long gone by.
Days of carefree youth; let the world go to pot.
Get drunk, get high, reach out for ecstasy.
No thought of what might happen;
the damage and the rot.
This man, this vagrant; what, really, has he got?
Rebellion? Freedom? Integrity?
No home, no money, his liver shot;
and yet, somehow, I envy his lot.
I have mentioned my liking/weakness for alcohol before, in this blog. As the years have gone by I have, reluctantly, been obliged to moderate my alcohol consumption. Now, as I reach my mid-sixties, I am beginning to encounter problems with “hypertension”, and may be compelled to cut-down even more on my drinking. In my late twenties and early thirties, however, I had a period when moderation was the last thing on my mind, and my favourite tipple of the time was a “super-strong” lager that came in a distinctive blue-gold can. Whenever I see youngsters striding around, nonchalantly swigging from the same easily-identifiable blue-gold can, or more elderly vagrants, sipping the lager as they beg for hand-outs, I experience a rush of nostalgia. It was one of these occurrences that generated the above poem.