Saturday Night Divers
Do you remember that time at RSVP?
It must have been summer.
Beams dancing off engravings
from when it was St Martin’s.
Trance beats too loud to speak.
We were sitting upstairs,
me facing the big screen.
They were showing bronzed bodies
diving off a precipice,
into a blue lagoon,
in never-ending rotation, it seemed.
No undercurrents, no encroaching waves
no plates shifting underwater.
Now that we live in different towns,
sometimes, drifting off, I dream
the shift manager locked up
without spotting us,
and we’re still there
beneath the chandelier,
the endless queue absent outside,
divers suspended in the atmosphere.
