When whispers from the inherited gramophone
Sing sweeter than the cacophony of drinks in shakers,
When the week’s exhaustion seeks respite
In servings of boxed wine instead of tailored martinis,
When ancient TV reruns nudge your heart to
Leap higher than a cue ball over felt,
When the crinkled linen inside your elbows no longer
Reminds you of their tweed jacket over your shoulders,
If your appreciation for their curls never
Landed as favourably as Isla Fisher’s behind the bar,
Why rest in the chuckles of another, who doesn’t
Make quite as good company as you do to yourself?
ThePurpleFenix 