Lucy grins
like an absurd bandit,
a flat, empty rucksack over one shoulder,
which I hadn’t noticed earlier.
The springs of Marla’s bed creak
through the ceiling.
We can take booze to the shed, I suggest.
Lucy shrugs. I pour ample measures from
the decanter into tumblers
and
glug
glug
glug
to prove I am fun,
someone to invest in.
And in the shed,
as the world wheels around us
I giggle for no good reason,
and sing songs I’ve heard on the radio
but don’t know the words to,
until Lucy opens her rucksack and
I spot Marla’s clock from the mantelpiece –
a heavy heirloom she fondles most mornings.
As Lucy gets drunker,
laughter climbing
into the roof of the night,
I feel entirely empty
of everything.