After we have sweated the night away
it has come to this, myself, yourself,
a lamppost on the corner of Handler and Wilde
stained with the **** of many a dog.
Your cheeks, rivulets of black,
happy tears you said, your friends
for now and perhaps time to come, dancing,
heels like typewriter keys on the gym floor.
All Macarena-d out, panting
as though a Collie after a sprint in heat,
your found me two-thirds of a diet Coke down,
lopsided bowtie, pentagon hole in the shirt.
No kiss, but small talk. A botched triple jump
into the limo, hands linked, already spooling
back through the hours, the slow dance,
the walls dappled blue, a memory like all before.
Now the kiss. Brief. Nothing more.
This too, a memory. For a second,
marriage and children lucid theatre in my head.
The reality something else. I head home,
you wave and we're gone.
Written: April 2020.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time several months ago that I forgot to upload. Feedback welcome. Please note that 'Macarena' refers to the song of the same name, while 'Handler' and 'Wilde' refer to the writers Daniel Handler and Oscar Wilde.