The ice bobs in the glass, a man overboard.
The last bubbles of froth pop out one by one.
The bourbon sits solid at the bottom,
refusing to mix with the coke, a hypnotising line
where it puts up a pointless battle.
The gin might have been more appetising
but it’d be wrong to cheat on my usual.
Jack Daniels is my husband of so many years;
it could only ever be a mistress.
A nearby couple squabbles with only their eyes,
over the length of a nearby girl’s skirt.
Stale chips and cold mushy peas stirred
absentmindedly throughout their voiceless fight
but she still politely passes the tomato sauce.
A second-hand language in their gestures despite it,
two parts of the very same machine,
a home in their automatic understanding.
A cucumber slice pushed from one plate to the other,
crumbs plucked from a beard like grooming monkeys.
I bring my lips down for another sip,
still content with my date for the evening.
Kirsty Niven lives in Dundee, Scotland. Her writing has been published in several anthologies including Heat the Grease: We’re Frying Up Some Poetry, Nocturne: Poetry of the Night and From The Ashes. Kirsty’s poetry has also appeared in numerous journals and magazines, such as Re-Side, Monstrous Regiment and The Poet. She can also be found online on sites like The BeZine, Voices and Prachya Review.