87/88 summer time past time

It’s a city sun saturated dawn.
Paice Ave flatmates either
scatter to their roles
or stay in their holes,
depending on the after effects
of an evening of everything.

A trip to the fridge results in
a yoghurt breakfast
and a trip of another sort,
leading to the garden of sheds
and nylon couches amongst
the washing pegged to the line
patiently waiting for yet another day.

Mackerel clouds sit in the sky,
gold dressing gown of paisley
your trademark clothing of choice.
As sentences from a Burroughs novel
spill from our mouths and
become dissected to the sounds
of Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit,
my eyes get stuck
on the blades of grass
which my feet have melted into
and I am reminded
that your name has two ‘n’s.