Ten Swigs

A swig for the hot crowded rooms

the classes, the bars.

A swig for forgotten text-books.

A swig for the still warm essay

quenched by administrative hands.

A swig for the one wonky table

in a room full of sure surfaces.

A swig for the bastard who stole your bread

your ham, your past-its-best mayonnaise.

A swig for the flooded urinals.

A swig for the sense of dread you felt

as she clasped your hand tight

drifting past polystyrene-fuelled monsters;

‘Take me back home.’

Swig to the bedbound morning afters

and the apologetic emails.

Swig to the state of your kitchen.

Swig to the shouldn’t haves

that you had to.


Daniel Gripton