A coal tumbles like a smoking comet

onto the carpet of the lounge

of the Alexandra Hotel. Patrons,

numb to the perfume of coal smoke,

oblivious to embers creeping

across shag, continue eating.

The chitchat is of meteor storms

and bad weather. Flames take hold;

nylon blue, then gold, orange

where the cuffs of trousers, hems

of skirts smoulder and ignite.

Sparks spit from lovers eyes

and as the body fat begins to melt

flames spurt from mouths and waxy

ears as if it were intelligent

repartee. No one stops talking,

as you and I sweat in the flambé

of our dissembling, even when

the cleaner scrapes the dentures

into his blackened pan

2am on a night to remember.