We struggle in the mud of last night’s rain,

While fearing the long dry season to come.

We move in forgotten spaces. In long grass,

Behind corrugated iron sheets brown with rust.

The rumpled mess in the doorway on a congested street.

Would a coin help or hinder? Would it really matter,

When the next drink is as inevitable as the last?

Some keep tip top, topped up by day,

Comatose at night. Absent to loved ones, but resolute.

Denial is a river in India. Oh how we laugh,

Then cry as we hide the bottles under the sink.

We can’t live without it, live with it or live at all.

The choice seems simple, but the path so worn and furrowed,

Leads us, guides us towards the status quo.

We all have to make a choice: whether to run,

Or turn and face life on life’s terms. So come with me,

Let’s get those muddy boots off. The kettle’s on.