The last dance across the parquet floor.
Airstrikes. Snowflakes of light.
The band plays the final song. The shutters
come down on the pleading mob.

One more drink—it won’t take long.
One last joke will see us to the door.
Hangover sex is what it is leading to.
A warzone with children. An ethnic war.

Something happens that shouldn’t be there,
the ugly swagger of the married man
snagging a worried girl against a pillar.
He is afraid of the grey human

drudgery he must return to. He is putting off
the moment of walking through that door.