A Febrile Mind

Shaking hands
won’t tell a febrile mind
that enough is enough.
So load up for old time’s sake.
Join me is a session
where I laugh.
Cry.
Carouse.
Careen.
Isn’t it sad
when one is never enough;
when 10 is just the beginning,
when the means justifies the end.
There is always an excuse
for another round.
You remember the times
you fell – well.
You saw the scars,
felt the convulsion.
Knew the wallet was empty.
The heart barren.
All that is left is
good intentions.
You know the feeling,
when the liquor seeps
into tongue, belly, mind.
When it’s in,
dripped into every cell
you're right.
For a minute.
Or an hour.
Then you top up.
It’s equilibrium.
Maintaining the sway.