Vino Nites

Me and me bezzie buddy.


Mondays? Fabulous!

They can’t come round quick enough

My turn in the chair.

A box of fourteen percent –

Plenty to last the evening.


Les had her cushion

I had mine – with one between

Never used. A plumped

Cordon sanitaire for two

Pillars of morality.



She served up olives and dips –

Sun-blushed tomatoes.

“Can’t drink on empty stomachs,”

I never understood why.


She left hurriedly

Without a last cheerio

I waved goodbye at

A head that did not turn round,

Mouthing, “See you next week then?”


I went next Monday.

Time for vino, olives, laughs

I opened the door.

No, “Who you shagging, my love?”

“…A gentleman never tells!”


Instead, nothing, an

Echoing, deep well, silent

Broken-tooth jagged

Awful sour unsought truth

Banjaxed my sobriety.


No more Mondays then,

No more bawdy laughs acting

Sober when her sons

Scoffed at our oldies’ antics

“Time you gits grew up,” they sniffed.


Keeping the peace, we,

Giggling gits, agreed. “More wine?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“How will you make it back home?”

(Dead bottles littered her room)


“No worries, Sweet, the

Corners are the tricky bits,

I ride better drunk.”

“Text me when you’re back home safe.”

“Okie dokie, you softie.”


No more ice pan skids

On winter potholed pathways

No more Monday wine

The woven wicker casket

Suited her – Les went in style.

© coolhermit 2023
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I do like a good banjaxing,, me. I like it – in vino, veritarse!

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