and it isn't us, still partying on a Sunday afternoon,
slumped on a garden patio beneath a greasy sun,
after a night of pale, crooked lines;
after improvised cocktails of gin and raspberry vodka.
"She died at thirty one", someone says, plucking
an olive from an ashy slick.
"Fell down the stairs."
And I'm aware I'm wearing grim, glittery rags; yesterday's knickers.
My back to honeysuckled brick, I flick tongue over gums
that taste like a gun in the mouth.
A mobile flashes MUM. No one picks up.
We know how mothers fret over the ticking clocks:
our one-bed flats,
Instead we fill our plastics up with cider,
and watch wasps as they circle spikes of lavender;
the big sky's cirrus scraps –
a Brimstone butterfly flaps, then settles
on a blackened bone.
My friends, we are so lucky and disgusting,
and will pay for this tomorrow.