You Know

When you know it’s 4 in the morning,
that it is the car park of Asda
and your head is unzipped,
the moon lights every
moist twisted grey trunk,
the parking bays
look like trap doors,
beneath, a pool of albino crocs
with open milky mouths
are waiting to take your flesh,
to assume your blush hue
and the lamps that show the way
lean in to make a guard of honour
for your stumbling form
and the empty trolleys
beg to be liberated,
their chains rattling,
a steely plea for clemency,
then you know
it is time
to
let
her
go.