Your Last Weekend

Your Last Weekend (15th June, 2008, 11.31pm)

Your last weekend, student loans running out,
you invited me up to party with the Uni crowd;
we cracked open the wine and ate party food
from paper plates to save washing up, you said;
your house was a state; everything was packed
but not tidied away; cans and bottles, miscellaneous
clothes, bin liners filled, ready to make their escape;
we dressed in black and went seeking the night,
rock and roll laughter, high on too much red wine,
making friends in rooms filled with familiar noise
and on a deck filled with scented smoke and boys.
We staggered out with the crowd around four a.m.,
legs aching from dancing, necks stiff, eyes smarting,
ears ringing with sound; the sky was lightening
and the seagulls were haunting us for chips and kebabs;
we scoffed and dodged chavs and intervened when
a chubby drunk yob threw a chip at a homeless man;
we wandered home with two of our new-found friends
and then sat in your lounge, giggling, until half seven.
That afternoon, after an interrupted three hours of sleep,
we ventured out in search of food, want become need;
walking in dark-lensed sunlight, blown by the breeze,
we traversed the waterfront, squinting out at the sea
while below us, on the beach, the local kids, orange
and under-dressed, drank beer and littered empty cans;
that night, we fell asleep over pizza and chips, watching
Harrison Ford, sexy and young, in a film on TV.
Coming back over the bridge, I broke the speed limit,
putting my foot down, scenting a hot Sunday dinner
at my parents’ house, having been puppy-licked clean;
The sky was on fire; it blazed pink, orange and red,
and I was glowing inside both heart and head; I’d been
part of your last weekend, and I was melancholy for you.