It’s like we have been starved of each other,
though we have only just met
and we are keen to make up for lost time,
leaning our stripy-topped bosoms on the table,
slapping our hands on its long wooden expanse
and agreeing with each other in shrieks
(Lana laughed enough to pish her breeks).
You’re gorgeous though!
No, you’re feckin gorgeous!
We can’t talk enough
about family, sex and death,
breach labour, Nicola Sturgeon and the NHS.
It’s not every day you wait a decade or two
for a faux medieval candelabra
to shine down on your face
and make you feel like, at last,
you’ve found your rhythm,
your got-it-now place.