Well of the Bottle

It isn’t in the well of the bottle

It’s when you miss your son’s baseball game

Or are late and absent from your daughter’s big day

They excuse you but they will remember

On a cold night in December they lie awake

Can’t even dream their way away

For when the clock rings it begins again

Bottom of the hour the procession is starting

Can’t find my tie or my keys I’m drunk awake

Get in the car I start screaming riddles

You look at me and say I’m crazy and your right

As the sun sets the ring of a glass bottle calls me

I stumble into the church the cops are waiting

Cuff clinks ring out in the chapel as my baby girl

Watches a poor representation of Daddy be led away