|At King's in Jesolo, 2004|
Disco lights, stale perfume: the dancefloor fogs.
I stumble towards the bar for gin and tonic.
Here's to making 28 euros last:
forget you're nearing forty,
crunch the ice and gulp an off-key hum.
Under pink beams, a boy grazes my shoulder.
He wants a match, gestures
with a cigarette. I flip open my Zippo,
offer him blue Gauloises. In less than an hour,
he's coughing rock 'n' roll in my ear.
A few feet away, my husband dances
with another man. Inevitably, their paunches bump.