Work night rumbles in the Dublin 4 palace Laughing in the stale smell of too much freedom Whiskey, beer, prosecco make up A rainbow of mischievous golden hues Corona that smells like drifting **** clouds No limes, browning in the red net In the fridge between pockets of pizza space No Topshop dresses, flannel shirts, uniforms But greasy repeal jumpers, palazzo pants, huffing Rollies on the porch under generous back light Beside rabbit ornament with human head, crouched In grass below the shroud of full moon fever. An ex-rugby lad in a Chance the Rapper cap Stands in the sunroom eating Chinese He ordered when he was bored of girls Changing the song one too many times Masking the gurgling moka, hidden To serve coffee at midnight and write bad verse Before morning dips potato waffles into relish "Which is just posh ketchup", breakfast Before leaving dry chunks in the bath for work.