M - The Morning After the Night Before

In the morning it rains on the frosty pavement.
I want apple juice but the shop only has orange.
A sunday paper and some tissues,
For my drizzling nose.

For now I feel nothing but the slipping under my feet.
I see nothing but the vodka-driven rainstorm of my eyes,
Merging into those of hers last night,
So sincere.

In the morning, ten-thirty-five Sunday morning,
Overdressed elderly ladies shuffle to the tabernacle,
The Holy Church of St. Sublime the Ridiculous.
Giant jeeps with bull bars,
Carry screaming children Sunday swimming.

My bottom lip feels rough, serrated,
I pick bobbles of dead skin from it,
Black as night, dehydrated.
She must have been wearing black lipstick,
Not that I noticed.

She poured me vodka you see,
In a wine glass,
Full to the brim.
And I was already pretty pissed and I forgot it was vodka and drank it
like wine,
Like cheap sparkling Lambrusco Bianco Light white wine.

Two gulps,
And it was gone.
Then everyone else left,
The party was over,
And I found her dragging me up the stairs...

The morning after the night before,
I know this is a cliche but it happens to be true.

I pass blear-eyed ravers coming down, giggling home,
Past surreptitious leaving lovers, promising to phone.
And the whistling Sunday milkman, finishing his round alone.

The vicar on his bicycle, peddling to his flock,
But when he gets there the church is bare, for the flock have gone to
shop.
While filthy mouthed street urchins chase Pop Idols round the
block.

And in the big house,
At the end of the cul-de-sac,
My last night softly dreams.
Unaware that the address I left on her bedside table was false.