Racing

There's this thing, and it isn't dancing to strange music at a disco in a cricket club on a wet October night, but maybe some part of it, the moment when someone dropped a glass of aniseed smelling drink on the floor and we all had to dance away from that wet place, and the tiny pieces of glass and the aroma. And the young women who knew strange dance steps to music which might have been from another planet, so utterly unfamiliar to me was it. This thing, like catching the eye of someone for a moment, when some meaning you don't even recognise verbally is exchanged on the dance floor, which is still and always the dance floor of your youth on which miracles might have occurred but never did or not to you. And going to the bar to ask for a glass of tapwater please. Purest of requests and no money changing hands.

And as well, going to a poetry workshop and letting rip in a 15 minute writing exercise and feeling like you've snorted a line of speed, and the world and everything in it is yours yours yours. Racing.

Now red wine. Its seduction and the fire glowing orange and ticking gently.