Poetry Corner: First Date

By Richard Wallace

Cigarette smoke hung in the air

like an angry blue cloud.

The exit sign looked as though

it was at least a mile away.


The half dozen or so bare light bulbs

hanging from the ceiling

took on the appearance of being

suspended in air.


Shining through the smoky haze

they looked for all the world

like some distorted

Van Gogh.


My friend was familiar

with the scene, smiling to her friends,

while I felt that I was on display,

which of course I was.


Young men were dancing

with young men.

Women were dancing

with their female partners.


My legs felt like mush


I thought that I was going to be

sick to my stomach.


I wished that I was home

watching T.V.,


just me.


Once again my mum and my dad

were right.

This is not the way that I should be introducing

myself to the world.

exit sign

Categories: Culture

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