Millions of perfect bubbles come from a place unknown;
waiting to touch my thirsty lips of broken ready told.
Sip is all I do –
not much effort let me tell you.
But the sharp cut distinction is all but listening
to my needy contemplation,
filling my dry levels of saturation.
Concentration is of none
in these early days of wet – forgiving tongue.
The conversation excels
to wisdoms of simple fun.
Wow, what have I just gone and done?
Holding on now to a moment of intent.
What was I talking about as I look for my bed?
Hesitation only dwells
as a full pint comes over instead.
A look of participation
is all we really know.
What these moments bring to us, tidy kings –
is worth the moan from the discovering keep hold.
The walk home is upon me –
but very cold.
And all those concentration levels
tinker with my sole.