A boy in one hand and a drink in the other

and I know I should be watching the boy,

watching his hands,

checking they’re anchored at my waist,

not sailing elsewhere

checking his eyes are full of me, not horizon

but all I’m thinking is how small these hands are,

and is it just me or is this drink getting bigger,

am I holding it or is it holding me. I had it.

I had my fingers wrapped round, I was counting the ticks

of the clock, I was one sip a minute then I tripped

on the hour hand and found myself in the glass,

fumbling in foam and watching big yellow faces

pressing close and the boy

I should be watching the boy, I know that-

they told me when his sails are full

he’s off and you can’t signal to him, he’s off following a light

flashing from a pretty girl not me

in an ocean of shoulders and pint glasses. But then

if he’s anchored am I stuck in a pub chair,

is he pulling me down, am I stuck in one place

with him and his hands. So much bigger than mine hands

are all I can think of, I swear my fingernails are shrinking

like sails on the horizon. And the sun’s going down

and he’s looking at me and I drank too much,

I swam too far out and I’ve got to decide

whether it’s lifeboat time. But my hands are so small

and so full, I’m not strong enough to shift a boat

I don’t know how to row.