Vivian In Her Dressing Gown

 She weaves across the room,

wearing the shade of lilac, silk,

after a night of flamboyant festivity.

Her larynx chilled and stilled

until she has drunk her coffee before the mirror.

There’s a massive punch of hangover still in her head.

She’s one of the fermentationally advantaged,

with some of the squirmiest kidneys on the block.

She’s feeling faintly ashamed;

as faint as shame can feel without being non existent,

while she slogs through a sloppy compaction of memory.

There’s faint images through that brain fog,

of a good time had by all, 

as they behaved like a rambunctious platoon on leave,

and she with her hair swinging,

like a windblown colt as she danced into the dawn,

while her company tried to pull down the house.

But this morning, she’s still unsold on sobriety,

and she makes no other answer to the challenge 

that perhaps enough is enough,

than to pick up her jolly dust pan,

and sweep up every clue that last night was overdone.