After my round, Karen
leaves early. The revision
won’t do itself, she says,
and we know she’s an
all-night crammer, we’ve seen
the textbooks thick as a brick
so we groan but know
needs must. Our tongues, fuzzy
from lurid orange *****,
heads starting to pound
but we all, those left, agree it’s time
for vinegar-blotted batter,
salted sliver, steaming grease
in a puddle of papers. They’re open
till late, I say, the only one
yet to stagger as our one minute
walk begins, laughter lost
to the night. Tom asks why
haven’t we done this before. Beats
me, we just forget about time
don’t we, it’s like there’s not
enough of it. He half-drunkenly nods,
the blinding glow of the chippy
reeling us in, thirsty for money.