Friday night

It’s freedy neeght

Ill informed patterns and loud nonsense spill into the city.

Awkward bundles of fabric are trying to billow on the muggy breeze

Stiletto heels slide neatly in between cobbles, wrong-footing unsuspecting passers by.

Mouths carried atop uncomfortable bodies unite to drown out a musician’s heart and soul as it drifts into the square from the bar opposite.

A herd of lads fervently believe their banter is of greater importance

and compete for everyone’s attention.

That’s our bit of airspace.

Testosterone drips from their sweaty white faces;

deep belly grunts

erupting from this chorus

of self-proclaimed

comedians.

I’ve been here an hour.

Finally someone shows the musician some mercy and there is one solitary clap. It doesn’t spread.

Play for us, performing monkey, play.

Or don’t.

No one cares.

It’s all phones and tapas, before pouring stupid down our cake holes and vomiting into the night.

Another clap.

It’s not what you think.

One of the testosterlads is basking in his own enjoyment: “well done me!”

Said that one loudly didn’t I?

I wonder

Does the enjoyment

extend late into the night-

alone,

in a room,

clapping into the darkness?

Does the banter become self reflecting and vulnerable

when the morning comes?

And if banter is spoken softly into a bathroom mirror

as the dawn breaks, but no one is there to hear it,

does it still make a sound?