Boxing Day by Peter Rose

One by one
they drift back
to their apartments,
company cars laden
with feral gifts –
after-shave, a racquet,
vintage port
in balsa boxes
to decorate a tip.
Neatly knotted,
a stray tie dangles
from a visor. Night
flicks over like a
vinyl record, scratched.
Grilling steak,
bachelors whistle
in the only cool,
regretting stomachs
no longer flat.
Celebrations over,
they sprawl on beds
new fans cooling
day-old resolutions:
sobriety, gymnastics,
the horn of independence.


Date: 1993

By: Peter Rose (1955- )

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