“In the space where booze used to be.”

In the space where booze used to be
I watch a potted geranium's exuberant blossoms thrown open
as wantonly as a can-can dancer's scarlet undergarments.

Behind their earthen vessel,
also in the space where booze used to be,
three feral cats press their noses to the glass pane
that separates them from the warm well fed luxury of me
and my sober parlour.

The winter sunlight enters but they may not.
The wood on the turf fire crackles.
It is cold outside and the bog wind howls.
One of the cats mews.
In the space where booze used to be
I am comfortable but empty.
It is a sad emptiness.
I imagine that if an empty bottle had feelings
it would feel like this,
in the space where booze used to be.

©Mike Absalom October 16 2011