She’d been up drinking all night.
I’d heard her at five in the morning
wobbling the length of the hallway,
cracking down hard on the toilet seat
to spew in the sink.
Coughing and hacking, she may as well
have been next to me,
puking beside my head, her wet hands
grasping the bowl. I find her
three hours later, my saddest housemate
slumped in baggy pyjamas,
painting silly futures
with her one-night stand.
I lift a can from the sink,
dislodge it from under the bowl–
a crushed bed of them
folded like reeking flowers,
the rising stink of apples, stale piss.
The pan handle wobbles
as I bend to scrub it,
dregs of cheese sauce
waving like fur in the washbowl.
The liquid splutters and wheezes.
I’ll pick up more, I grunt
but she does not acknowledge me
as I bang stiff windows open,
keeps her wild eye
trained on her coffee with skin on.
Drops a pale crust on the floor.
I think of ladies dropping silk handkerchiefs.
Her splattered hair moves in the breeze.