Framboise cocktail

door to door across the old oak
table on tarmac needing replacement -
i never flatten my feet to the ground
despite the glasses that shake
in and out of view as one of you, or
maybe it’s more than one
of you, notice i’m somewhere different
over the road, over the tops of
buildings, new blocks, sunsets
barely visible; your feet stay flat
iron-strong and judgemental
of my airy demeanour, hollow head so
vacuous and anchored by a thin
ribbon - each fibre gradually snap
snap snap snapping and your
frustration growing when I do
nothing to hold the strings together
- though I could - couldn’t I? - no
I think I’ll just keep sipping on
sour delights and locking
eyes with you before quickly averting
my gaze, heavy with guilt and
helpless to find the right
combination of ingredients -
acids sugars salts in compound
little decisions, yes, no,
sideways, back, forward
being the permanent answer and
tying me with a new piece of ribbon
clasping the same weary piece
of my hand; your hand in exasperation
unsteadies the glass onto the
surface spilling sweet bitter potentials
through the scuffs and gaps and
dripping to the craggy floor, for
a moment bringing you in line
with me, for the first time, when
you try to contain the liquid as it
runs from you in all directions -
you struggle against the tiny currents in
berry-soaked vain.

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