A pint

Millions of perfect bubbles come from a place unknown
Waiting to touch my thirsty lips of broken ready told.

Sip is all I do
Not much effort let me tell you.

But the sharp cut distinction is all but listening
To my needy contemplation, filling my dry levels of saturation.

Concentration is of none
In these early days of wet tongue

The conversation excels
To wisdom of simply fun.
Ooow what have I gone and done?

Holding on now to a moment of intent
What was I talking about as I look for my bed.

Hesitation only dwells
As a full one comes over instead.

A look of participation
Is all we really know.

But what these moments bring to us tidy kings
Is worth the moan from the discovering keep hold.

The walk home is upon me
So quick
But very cold.

And all those concentration levels
Tinker with my sole.