Saturday Night

I lie back on this bed of mine
In this barrack of a room
The nightclubs call out to me
With the clinking vodka
And the swaying women
Who don't seem to notice you
But smile to themselves inside
The bleary eyed baldy at the bar
Who's always looking six inches south
Of her smile.
And you,
With the light in your hair
And the laughter in your eyes
That mocks this mad ritual
Of alcohol and music and dance
And halter tops and tag heuers

I stare at the ceiling in this room of mine
And sink into the usual stupor
The music of the crowded city
Coughing into my ears
With only the angry glow of the streetlamps
And the nylon stench in the air for company
I close my eyes and breathe.