Long Weekend

[heslopian]

In deepest Kent at a holiday camp
the noise rises as the afternoon dies.
Nauseating party tunes blare through the
demon maws of gargoyles on either side of the stage.
I wonder if the DJ - a plump man in a tiny booth,
wearing a Hawaiian shirt - one time had dreams.
In this dim hall where as the light wanes
my grandfather deals the last round of cards,
I twirl ice cubes around my glass
and eat peanuts more shell than nut.

Tomorrow Nan will take my arm
and lecture on my mother's sins.
A marital seer she'll castigate her son's partners,
false wisdom the sport of her generation.

In a couple of hours I'll drift back to the chalet.
If I can I'll find a takeway - a counter opposite a bar
where burgers and chips are passed through a hatch -
and eat discreetly in my room. Two college students
climb on stage and shake their limbs,
affecting dance with spastic moves.

One, a twentysomething man with beads of sweat
bathing taut skin, turns around, shows his buttocks,
barely contained by denim jeans.
Chewing an ice cube I consider the sole advantage
of these long weekends away.