In the fridge
Beside a plate
Upon which lays a pizza wedge,
Is a beer.
It’s cold right now, but it
Will soon be beside
The warm, empty bottles
On the coffee table,
I know that for sure.
The table also has room
For an ashtray and a form guide.
The TV flickers a reality program
On silent,
And the radio plays race 7
From Randwick.
It’s hot and the fan clicks
Slowly overhead.
The lid twists familiarly off the bottle,
Which has started to sweat,
In my slightly shaking hand.
One quick mouthful
Then the bottle is against my forehead.
It slips against waxy skin
That is the same colour as
My once white singlet.
Sitting down I reassure myself…
I’ll clean up tomorrow.
Poetry is my aeroplane 