Campari and Smoke Rings
In the side street bar,
below the church of St. Catherine,
the drinks are cheap and the music loud.
Girls in tight jeans lean into young men
who might be Zepharelli extras
with their dark halos of curls.
It’s easy sitting here, with my glass
of rough red, watching them laugh
and flirt as the evening gathers
in among the Campari and neon,
to imagine my life just like theirs;
mirrored infinitely
in the bar’s smeared glass.
Yet when I look back
through the fug of smoke rings,
down the dark alley
the way I just came, I realise
that around the next bend
there’s no unknown room
filled with the scent of crushed roses,
where muslin curtains lift
on the evening breeze and clouds
of swallows circle and circle
under the eaves in the growing dark.
.
by Sue Hubbard