Liquor, such a licentious name,

I hear it whispered on TV,

my hair stands on end.

I move the bottles out of sight,

to negate their seductiveness.

They cry to be held or treasured.

The weakness of wine glasses,

resonating when they are washed.

They are true to their purpose at least.

I pour a scant amount,

measuring with molecular like precision.

I swig it back without savouring.

Alone, my struggle not to hear

is like atmospheric pressure building.

Another bottle will help me to breathe.