Morning After
I shuffle my feet in the pharmacy queue
and clock you slouching over vitamin B.
I want to tell you to stand up straight
and wish you’d shaved before we came.
While other mothers queue for Calpol
and Caniston and poorly tummy tablets
I speak in low tones to the great straight-laced.
I listen as she reads me my rights,
accept pills with nods, facts, shakes and dates.
She scans the shop floor for the bill payer.
Whose responsibilty is this? Whose round?
Whose chore to pay the nineteen ninety nine
for the night’s misdeeds
and a quick getaway?
Outside we smalltalk like strangers
for our head-aches’ sakes.
In the time before your train we try to recall
if all that passed was worth all that is left.
In the mess of our sometime bed our imprints shrink
and wait,
