Sometimes your dressing gown unhooks
and slides out under the garden door
with three aces up his sleeve.
He flies in the face of next door’s dog,
back flips down the middle of the street,
opening himself to the breeze.
Something in pink nylon flutters a cuff
from an upstairs window. He twirls his cord
to beckon her outside.
They’re heading for a club they know
where the dress code is relaxed midweek,
and the music is strictly soul.