Are we too old for fish-‘n’-chips
Too well-dressed, perhaps
To queue in a place not found on maps
As far from a taxi as it’s possible to be
And whose idea was this anyway?
We’ll take them back to mine; no
Sorry, yours. Am I staying over? Early
Rise, you say. I’d forgotten. Not thinking,
And to be honest not feeling great
I’ll see you to your door. Sorry, gate.
Not for the first time, I feel foolish
Out of my depth, out of step, out of tune
With the rituals. Just-divorced men soon
Sputter and glink like a tubelight leaking neon
A tint of apology, if you like, and they’re driven
To primp themselves up with the latest glaze
Buy hip footwear, a shirt with a label
All of it bright as a distress flare visible
Over the ocean of dread they navigate –
Only to wash up in a chippie in the middle of the night.
