At the ripe age of fifty-five
I went to a club for the first time
was this a head-on dive
into the youths’ pantomime?
With glitter everywhere, my twenties just begun
thank God there are other things to do—it wouldn’t be much fun.
The sweaty Swedish schlager songs
made me spill my drink into girls’ hair
what’s the point of apologising for my wrongs
if neither will remember we were there?
So much needless alcohol
or maybe just bad music
might’ve as well slipped on huile de tournesol
I shouldn’t just confuse it
At the aged age of fifty-six
I now conclude the clubbing
along with the chilled drinks
left behind in the drain, pouring.