She stands up, grabbing my attention
takes her handbag from off the chair
I follow her out for a cigarette
I didn’t smoke  
but started then.

Back between the noisy bottles and empty glasses
she causally informs me
what she did
in-front of the mirror
as a teenager. Regardless,
I’ll abort another potential child
onto the sheets tonight.

I tell her how I try
to right poetry,
she laughs; complains of the weather
then asks: would you like me to come with you home.
She adds with wink pun intended.

Yes, oh God yes.

When the morning came
she had vanished.
With the passing of a moon
an envelope arrived containing
a positive stick. And an ode —
Thanks for the passport,
Mr poet man.