We Stumbled

I ran to you already drunk before noon.
You’d lost your daddy’s cards, 
You don’t bother playing anymore.
Fingers are for pointing,
and we’re all judges.
 
We stumbled, 
children emerging from the blitz,
And peeled the duck-egg blue from Maria’s dress,
leaving it shattered in flaky bits.
For every pang, we found a top-shelf
calamine to ease the itch. 

No fleas for us, from dogs
that found our grand-daddies
in the early hours,
as they watch the soft heaving outline
of their sleeping women,
Thinking, if it came to it,
She would probably forgive him.
 
We worship at the hand
of cigarette-stained fingers.
We listened to the sound
of our raging gut.
I heard that you vomited out your soul,
Adoring feckless fatherland fathers
too long to be brought up again now.
Nobody sees when a dead drunk
falls down.
 
You thought we swayed together?
Who would single out one soul among such a number?
Who would listen to your angry little voice
When we are all screaming?

Who could feel you wince,
when we all collide together?
Who will tell you that your heart will break 
When we smash it all up forever?