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The Boat Party

That’s not how I recall it,
with the dulcet music on the gramophone
rattling foreign words of beauty
over the seagulls on the landscape.

Rattling necks of smuggled red
against the whistling rims of large glasses.
Rattling steel toe tips,
against the slatted wooden decks,

as they danced, raised and merried their drinks
before slumping over their tired tables.
That’s not how I recall it,
from the view of my room.

I recall,
muted conversation on dreary legs,
shuffling past the gesture of an ear,
over the swallows stranded at sea.

Shuffling the last of the port,
across the gloomy, soulless bar,
shuffling past the passed smiling-frowns,
over the crowded noise polluted floor.

The spirits dipped and dodged their former selves
before pawing the same stagnant thoughts.
That’s how I recall it
from the view of my room.