Saturday Night, Presently
Sarah and best mate Claire
light up in the Ladies,
one seated, splay-legged
around the pan,
one leaning back against the door.
Scanning the graffiti they
snort the smoke of their cigarettes,
swear with the liberty of men.
Brushing the surprise
from their hair and
sparking their tired lipstick, the
subject shifts to
the girl in the suede skirt
sat beneath her cleavage at the bar.
The tragedy of her style and
easy way she touches
the boys, who, the fools,
are slow and docile,
stupid with spunk
and beer.
Sarah and Claire, leaving,
affirm the allure of their bodies
in the mirror on the wall,
shimmying themselves back
into shape and comfort as
someone heaves their hope up
in the stall at the end of the row,
choking on their celebration,
their need to stay in front
of the working week ahead
and the smallnesses
of existence,
the heavenly unreliability
of joy.
