Friday Night Binge in the City of London | Rose Mary Boehm
His big sweaty palm leaves a mark.
She barely notices his touch.
She’s on her fifth Rum and Coke
Rum to get that tension down,
Coke to keep you standing.
Old-fashioned drink but who
cares and she doesn’t do stuff.
He wishes for a large ungulate
and a shiny armor.
It’s a sweet summer night and the
‘Slug and Lettuce’ is full. He gets
waylaid by shiny things.
It’s so inevitable.
She’s switches to vodka orange.
Her wings feel wooden.
Her laughter sounds shriller.
Her standing becomes erratic.
His kisses taste of brass.
Strange.
She thought he was in equities.
When she slides into fetal position
by the green container
the trombone falls from his hands.
Don’t touch
my soul.
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