The Glass

by Judith Taylor

Not midnight yet. My parents have gone to bed
leaving me sitting up on their sofa
drinking the sideboard whisky, watching the clock
tick, and thinking again

how things reverse themselves
since the days it would have been me in bed by this time
not to rest, but just to lie there
listening out for clues
    
to how much drink had been taken and
what the trouble was

till it all died down:
the end of another day at last
and ready for sleep.

How clear I thought my mind was then
when I looked at them

and part of me thinks so still;
wonders, exasperated, where I picked up that song
The Parting Glass, that I can't stop hearing
inside my head tonight

that same old drunk-at-the-end-of-it story,
all the harm I've done
alas twas only done to me  - yeah, nice for you
that you can think so -

and part of me wants to ask me
how can you say that? Did you really not think
you belonged?

And that part wishes still
- like on every Hogmanay -
for a good voice

to sing, and be sung with.
To let the tears all fall,
ready for sleep.

To sing Goodnight; to sing
joy be with you all.