Those crisp mornings we would
move at our own pace; no need
for alarms drilled into our temples.
The newspapers skip-read at
our leisure, the hangovers almost
We would drift from each
room with perfect calm. Those tranquil
notes from raindrops and the tick of the
unfed electric meter, like a malfunctioning
metronome that would keep our boredom
in time with it’s beat.
The evening was our only commitment,
our choice of business mixed only with
pleasure, our only hardship was planning over
glasses and ashtrays how to exit this glorious mess.