Wrong Side

Let me try to explain
what my life dictates:
I’m driving
on the wrong side,
where I have to think,

again, no usual moves,
re-school my reactions,
to get by,
to cruise,
on new-normal functions;

my engine,
a metaphor,
without lubrication,
add lack of sat-nav,
and tail-backed impatience.

Let me maintain
this license, still free,
allowing me to drive,
slowed speed.

Withnail is I

Here stood desk-leant
now feeling fine,
knocking back left over
swigs of wine:

Earlier Harvey’s
unsettles my gut,
a prelude to the morning’s
face-down chuck?

Unless I am lucky
and avoid a hewed-spew,
I’ll suck down my bile
and collapse in the loo

to attend to this toilet’s
spick-spanned wipe:
this is my prayer-mat
sick out of sight.