friday

It’s Friday evening;

it’s Friday fucking evening! 

Excited chatter slips through 

the gaps in the music

that bleeds from my earphones. 

 

London beckons;

silver shoes and gold socks,

Leopard print trousers, 

deep red lipstick;

London reckons 

it can cope with you.

 

I wanted to take a photo,

I love it when people aren’t afraid

to go for it. Is there

etiquette around that? It’s weird

right?

 

The chat doesn’t die;

I turn up the pretentious 

jazz. Do I even really like

Chet Baker? God, and I bet 

I think I look cool,

Writing poetry on my phone

that doesn’t rhyme,

who has time?

Yes, I feel sick too.

This isn’t even a poem.

 

Through the gap between the two empty seats in front,

I see a man wearing brand new shoes,

knock off caterpillar boots,

so new they’re still orange.

His jeans have a huge grass stain across them. 

Imagine having such bright, new shoes; not so much as a scuff,

Yet, such grubby trousers. 

 

I’m squished right in the corner;

plenty of seats but I almost hide,

legs crushed against the cold,

grey metal backs of the chairs 

in front.

 

It’s Friday fucking evening,

but all I want is to hide.

Tonight is dread;

dread of drink,

dread of 

having to think

on my feet

when somebody asks me

 

anything.

 

Let me be

so I don’t have to be

anything

to 

anyone.

 

I have nothing to 

give to this scenario.

 

I am already there, 

uncomfortable;

loud music making it

impossible to hear 

A

 

Sorry?

 

No, sorry? I’m not sure...

 

What?

 

Figures in darkness shouting increasingly non-sensical words into the dirty furniture; at their empty glasses.

 

I don’t know if I care.

 

Where are we?

 

Gold shoes.

Silver socks.

Leopard print trousers. 

 

Did you have a fun night;

because you really wanted to. 

I just wanted 

a pizza.