I am sitting on the upper deck

Of my morning bus

It passes the building

Where I used to be employed

Before I experienced redundancy

The building has not changed at all

But it is no longer illuminated


I am holding a bottle of clear whisky

It has not been opened

Nor will I consider opening it

To feel my liver slowly rotting

Holds no appeal to me

Its subtle colour variations

Betray the thoughts of my eye