Beer Promises

There isn’t room for any more
beer promises, we are not close
relatives, we are not close in any
form of intimacy – you laugh easily
when your sense of social etiquette
triggers that out-welling of mirth;
it is not only believable, I envy it.

I look to you to sanction me – but
you see a different set of colours,
a rich tapestry of nuances beyond
the weave which hangs about me
as a shroud.

I pour the beer, we drink, you sing
the joyous songs of your heritage;
I hum the tunes, ponder long
and dolefully over their meaning
– not understanding a fucking thing,
and promise you the World.
© I.D. Carswell 2006