Here’s What Happened

One blue morning
recovering from surgery
on a torn anterior cruciate ligament

with my leg bound in a cast
from shin to bollocks,

I see, from my window,
the local drunk muscling
through blustery winds.

In his tattooed paw,
he grips a neon
blue carrier bag bulging
with a two-litre bottle
of cheap cider.

It swings past his knees
and splits.

His blue bottle bounces
and rolls off the kerb.

He stoops to pick
it up,
and wooah,
over he goes
in slow motion.

He struggles
with a blurry equilibrium
against assaulting winds

as a white car
halts beside him.

This couple in shining armour
rush to help before noticing
he’s a dastardly drunkard.

They recoil in terror
as his piss
darkens the crotch
of his light blue
jeans.

They leap back
into the comfort
of their white car
and gallop away
into the distant
sunrise,

leaving our hero
stranded
on the battleground.

But for him
this war
is far from over.

The old boy
musters up
the strength
to scoop up
his cider.

He rises
with potency
and carries his blue
bottle like Achilles
carried Patroclus.

And our bibulous hero
marches forth victorious,
despite the violent elements,
up an empty road.

And I think,

everyone wants to be a hero
until there’s a slight chance
of getting a drunk’s piss
on them.