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,
and backflips down the middle of the street,
opening himself and humming.
Something in pink nylon flutters at him
from a bedroom 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.