The First Date Vs. The Drunk

One minute to midnight and their eyes
go clink. A toast: to your bed. Two sips
from readiness. She licks a digit. He flips
a bar mat. They feel the booth humidify.

Clive clocks love birds in need of his wisdom.
With the confidence of a traffic accident black spot,
he swims across. His beard’s begun to clot
with peanut dust and chits of shattered poppadom.

“Mate, all she wants is to go someplace nice,”
Clive says, “I been around. Think: Westward Ho.”
The juke box skips. He goes again: “Mate, all
she wants is to go someplace…” He slides
in to a feedback loop. They stand and go.
The mute room. Frozen booze. Time is called.