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.
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