After New Year’s

As nerve-jabbing stabs of sound penetrate
his consciousness, Sam groans and wishes
he’d stuck to his guns. A quiet New Year’s Eve
at home would have been more sensible, surely?
He’d have signed his renewal contract, the one
deliberately avoided through Christmas.
Financial security but anxiety nightmare.

Working dawn till dark leaves no chance of social
life, so he was stunned when some old school
mates insisted he join in their big bash;
one even offered a bed for a couple of hours.
It’d been a fun night, the bits he remembered.
There was a girl interested but he brushed
her aside, no space for a relationship.

The crashing headache and heavy nausea
keep flashing up an image of a line of empty
beer cans. He doesn’t even rate himself
as much of a drinker, never has the time.
Clarity begins to dawn. The stabs are empty
milk bottles clanking as they drop into crates,
rattling him into realising he has choices.