11 pm and I’m in the back kitchen
hands hot and raw on plastic
And the restaurant shares an alleyway
with the pub, so of course as I stand there
in a brief fluorescent moment of alone,
these two girls, right, they come running,
swaying, past the sharp cold
square of fly-screen door
and the knife-dark night.
and my fingers slip, no
purchase. A sliding
friction, and my hands
all thick and unsure.
I can’t see them, their flight
through blackly starred con-crete,
these shitfaced nymphs
in their bluemetal Bacchanal dream,
but I can imagine the spit and the glitter;
they are laughing and it sounds like it hurts,
one is shouting something, a sound, a word,
I think it’s ‘sex’,
over and over.
She’s screaming sex into the night,
and sober, slick to my elbows,
I know how she feels.