Seven three-quarter gnocchis they can’t pronounce,
a bit of homesickness for Milano, the place of places
and German booze for flavouring.
They play with balloons outside
and run past the reddish glowing river
that has yachts and too many swans
moving upstream into seven three-quarter sunsets.
We shout out loud our need
for more decent music and books or
at least the odd Shakespeare quote.
Passed out we laugh at the world
that’s seven three-quarter seconds away
from eternal salvamnation.
A hug here, a kiss there, one more shot
for the road that leads nowhere
but home if home is
the only place where we sleep.
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