WEEKENDERS

You’re either dragging your feet or being
Dragged along by people you eat with and
Supposedly sleep with, but God forbid live
With (as house mates are better at that job
And more abundant) to uncharted regions
And urban retreats, where a party is happening
And a guest is most welcome, especially if
Dressed in that weekend’s sheath of aesthetic
Apparel. And the one who coerces you
Spends most of the evening eagerly standing
And recanting their life and all of its story to
A stranger they’ve only just met, who is doing
The same, and suddenly adore. Gossip is
Spoken in place of most orderly tongues,
And cattish is served after gazpacho; would
You like two ice cubes in that or three sir?
Make mine a double and skip the fizzy mixer eh.
And of course there’s no sport to talk of or
Thought of that day’s exertions by overpaid
Waiters, and cinema seems to have been
Relegated with it and replaced by whichever
High cultured new wave the host read about
Earlier that day in his weekend supplement,
Which, incidentally, I’ve just wiped my arse on,
As although they’ve stocked up on every known
Food stuff and nose puff and teen beverage,
They’ve forgotten the toilet necessities, and I
Do hope I’ve managed to leave the right impression.