The Ballad of the Pink Gin

There she was.
Venus as a gin.
Pink and glistening
like the elixir
of ambivalence.
That feeling you get…
when the frets
have stretched your
worried head,
and you need
an alcohol
anaesthesia.

She slipped into
my trolley.
All regal and
queenlike.
Not like the
proletariat breadloaf,
or the lower caste
regurgitated chicken roll.
She protested as
she slipped into
her carrier bag,
but I’m not paying
for elaborate horse drawn
carriages from the likes
of Tesco.

Try carrying 6 bags
of shopping on a bus,
so, I called a cab
to carry us,
my pink gin love
and I.
But you wouldn’t expect
to lose a friend
so soon
after bonding.
And manslaughter charges
don’t apply to
alcoholic beverages.
But our love lay
shattered. Crucified.
In shards of broken glass
dreams, and
pools of wanton
aspirations.

The taxi guy,
he pleaded guilty,
but I don’t like to
see people sad
and watching his regret
made me feel bad.
I want for nothing, really.
I don’t need his
sixteen pound fifty,
when he earns a pittance
and feeds a family.
Might be his gas money
for the week,
and I know from his eyes
he is sorry to his skeleton
and remorseful to
his guilty heart.

I hope the Tesco cleaners
gave my love a
regal funeral,
and there will be a lot
of merry birds
on Gallagher Retail Park
today!

Sarah Drury 2021