Through the peephole, I spy her
and her friends huddling like bottles,
an hour ahead of schedule. The chiming
doorbell pairs with windscreen wiper squeaks,
announcing the lads’ arrival; the girls scurrying
to bagsie the kitchen counter. Lads turning
my living room into a DJ booth with a string
of YouTube tabs. Strobe lighting courtesy
of the drunken switch flicker, practising
for later. There is a canteen line outside
the pantry, mouths skying Peach Schnapps,
Apple Sourz and stale Wotsits. Both the driveway
and garden becoming a sewer and seductive chamber.
Deafening laughter and music hammering walls,
summoning strict knuckles; lads scattering
like corks. She meets me in my bedroom.
Swirling glasses clank faces, coaxing
us into twisting tongues together. Her dad lighting
up her phone. Her eyes pouring drinks, before sprinting
to catch the 32 bus. She crouches behind the hedges,
swapping her fishnets and denim shorts for a sweeping
floral skirt. On the phone to her, I am spilling beer pong scores.