Wheat Face.

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Wheat Face


Pale Ale
Leaves a sweat-trickled trail down my spine in the morning,
And I’ve got half a lime between my thighs, deadpan, looking me back in the eyes. 

I woke up under a barrel.
A wooden one with a wheat coloured tap at the bottom.
I’m a tiny soaked seed, disoriented, face full of fermentation. 
Flick off the lime-intruder, who falls between an empty beer bottle and a coffee brewer.

Slow-paced awakening,
I’m the pea-pod sized Wheat Face, the everybody-likes-me crusty bacon bit.

Not provoked, just sleepy,
No drink in hand, just a hundred and one servings of cheeky.
I was tired, who can blame me?

Sat down under my barrel, facing the wedged citrus slice, waiting for a human to come save me.

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