The 26th of June, 2016

We’d invited the neighbours over,
you know, a party. To celebrate
the Referendum result, but most
of these people I don't even know,
a few I’d never seen before... Some
might not even live in this building.

But never mind, we had lots of Stella,
pork scratchings, and sausage rolls.
The telly was on with the volume
turned low, and in a few hours we’d
know if we were all in or all out.

Alison was at the table, she lives
above me in flat 201. She brought
a litre of pear cider, kept the top
screwed on tight, hoarded the bottle
between her knees. She played

Hearts with Jane, whose husband
was leaning against the wall like
a tall spindly plant. And a man,
who nobody could identify, had sat
himself in front of the TV. On the floor.

Tripping hazard, Alison’s partner
whispered in my ear, he was nodding
at the man on the floor. I shrugged,
and opened another can of Stella.
The pork scratchings were already gone,

The 26th of June, 2016

that was annoying. I hadn’t had any yet.
I like scratchings. And then the BBC’s
Dimbleby appeared on the screen —
Turn it up, Jane’s husband shouted —
can’t hear what’s being said.

Excusez-moi, a tap on my shoulder.
The toilette. Plunger? S'il vous plaît?
And so went the rest of the night.
Straight right down the drain.