Cherry knocking

I have cherry knocked

at death’s door

with a gutful

of drink and pills

taken in the exuberant

abandon of pharmacologically

neutralised nightclubs

to forget for a moment

and act without worry -

or just to flatten the day

and wash it away

in the bath -

I have swallowed tablets with whisky

to try and bring on the night sooner,

when I thought I could not face

another day -

but if he ever answered

I would not stay -

I would get scared

and run away.

I must stop knocking

at that same dark door -

one day a bony hand

will open the Yale lock

and he will say

come in

I’ve been expecting you.