The Quickening
Upstairs, the tide slapping sound of laughter and music
became a din, small cubicles, pink light and creaking bedsprings
and it reeked of beer belching men and perfumed women.
Angry gull like shrieks from cubicle five a customer had fallen
asleep occupying much needed space. Two bouncers came and
carried the sleeping one down to his friends in the bar.
Lost and silent after bought love they drank more, the music grew
lauder as did laughter; their eyes betrayed them though, quiet
longing in a pool of stillness, their romantic male illusion had not
yet hardened behind a shield of cynicism.