A poem for the Sunday morning after on your birthday

What are you doing this Saturday night? No, not that Saturday night. Wait, actually, Saturday’s is next week.

Oh, it’s my birthday. And I’m afraid there’s no bro doing and frogging to Britpop at my birthday do this year. This time I’m doing ketohyot ole, which is wagyu beef with gougères on top. Kildere over, fwahk, wahff-wahk, wagyu over, wagyu over, yurgh, wagyu over.

*mimics reggae coda*

*both drop fork to eye like swords

*wait an ever so slightly longer while flagging before entering

*the curtains fall open and we get shocked

*somerset trees drop their leaves

*we read a few pages of the novel to make up for time lost

*yadda yadda yadda*

*while sorting through the dishes

*edges of the table shift to within close proximity of the brick walls

*whispering is the order of the night

*red wine is the toast of the night*

*bemused faces

*our nerves and heads begin to look slightly larger

*bemused faces change to disbelief and laughter and smiles

*minutes dwindle away

*cooling would be the logical course of action

*conversations begin to sputter out

*wills drift off towards grumblings

*the date says 25 September; and shame on you, it’s my birthday

*cumulatively and uniting face, gi gi gi, gi gi gi

*like bits of aggregate

*gazing at my own gaping face

*sampling fear and loathing

*back to the writing: “And it’s oh, so cold,” as the date changes to tomorrow

*drinking of water

*spells of jealousy in mind.

• Hot Potato is available from Rivian (vintage #303)

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