Comfort

Sometimes my refuge is a book.
Sometimes it's the bottom of a glass.
An amber swirl, a golden whiff of agave.
And sometimes a clear, vodka-crystal kick.
Sometimes, words make magic.
Spin worlds, implode and explode.
Cascade. Cavort. Crash. Cure.
Words, sometimes, are my curse.
Easily spoken. Stubbornly unbroken.
Inconveniently true. Sometimes.
And then there's the comfort
Of an old friend. And tequila sunshine.
Or the long-suffering lover
And ageing Scotch.
Or even the long, single afternoon
Of images, memories and a fast-beading beer.
But the best, by far,
Is recognizing in you
A little part of me.