Drinks Season

by Damon Moore

‘I know that house,’ our hostess says,
So unconventional.’

In that house, the book I have been reading
Has exculpation for conversation,

Would not enflame old loves,
Impersonate any blog, jinx presentiment.
No-one would use the word ‘blancmange’
And the summa of our carpaccio
Offers good cheer, restitution.

How many men for example
Are butch, how many Basque  
And what does the word ‘organic’ mean to you?

For the first time in a long time
I think fondly of stylish entertainment,
Student style, the three of them,
Anne over-sexed, mashing guacamole,
Bini reading her regular Alan Coren column,
Suki the joker, washing-up,
Polishing Minton.

Sprung from farming stock
She was tougher than she looked,
For her final term
Living rough in an abandoned cottage
Outside St Andrews with crows.
I think of that mattress on the floor,
Candles around.

How many meals, drinks parties
Have gone west since then?
Great care must be taken not to knock over the wicket
Scotching outbreaks of the random.
Hang on — a stranger is asking if he should,
Should not move his car
And I don’t have one so am the last person to ask.
Can it be the Ashes series again—

Surely not the Freddie Flintoff one?

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