They clatter out of the Paragon
fringed, feathered, foul-mouthed,
​
singing at voice tops, filling the air
with sparking exuberance. Arm in arm,
​
a battalion in beer, cheeking the chaps
that cat call from curb sides offering to treat them.
​
Mary doubles up with laughter so hard
she says it makes her teeth ache.

​At each alley way and street corner
they turn another girl loose until
​
only two are left to say goodnight.
Maggie becomes a song disappearing
​
into darkness. Sarah at the lodging door
hopes Mrs Meany has glued herself to sleep
​
amongst finished boxes stacked high
on the table. Hopes she isn’t waiting up
​
with a What time do you call this?
a You’ll catch it when they lock you out

​for half the day, a whispered Baggage,
phossy jaw set to chew so hard at Sarah
​
she has to look away. Hopes there’ll be no
Out on your ear if you don’t make the rent,
​
to follow her up the wooden hill,
to a damp bed shared with a killed mood,

​to work rosary beads through her fingers,
pray for change, wake in the night with a start

​to see her work things glowing away
on the chair. Like an omen or a visitation.