London

Were you waiting,
You cross-legged creature
in the post-mortem hall
after the image of embarrassment
crowding the roaring currents
of the sickness of vodka,
art in hand?

You see,
in London,
in a dead-cushioned couch.
Geekly staring forth,
into a bottomless screen.
Expressionless but happily flushed.

The lighted hallways resound as
the bottle scrapes the floor.
The party is over, but the crowd lingers,
like the Turners on the wall.
The vast silence grows louder,
as the bottle breathes its last alcohol breath
and the spotlights darken
against the darkening sky.