Gerry McCullogh writes

Love songs of the 21^st century.

Coming downstairs at half three, Tracy calls him.

“Are you coming?  Come to bed!  It’s nearly morning.”

The television noises drown his answer.

A video running, she can see it’s porno. 

“Yes, okay, I won’t be long.”  She hovers.

“Eternal Flame.” She drifts into the kitchen,

Puts on the kettle, makes a cup of coffee.

Some toast, to take upstairs, a sort of comfort.

Much later turns the light out, falls asleep.

Sandra O’Grady, chased into the kitchen,

Dodges Tommy’s boot, turns to escape.

“A many splendoured thing…”  Tries to push past him,

She doesn’t know why things have gone this badly.

This time he came home drunk and broke the window,

Threatened to kill her, called her ugly names.

As Sandra grabs him, Tommy lifts the kettle,

Pours scalding water on her face and arm.

She runs outside, doesn’t know where to go.

“He’s late again tonight. Where has he gone?”

The clock ticks on, regular, terrifying.

Danny McMasters stands up, sets his glass down.

Another whiskey?  Better not, this evening.

“I get no kick from champagne…   Where are you, Trevor?”

Trevor comes home.  It’s after one.  He’s swaying.

His cheeks are red, rubbed by designer stubble.

“Who were you with?”  “Who with? Who cares?”  No answer.

Dan pours two drinks, there’s nothing else to do.

Chased by romantic visions, we jump wildly

Fearful of missing out, pushed by our bodies,

Out of the open doorway,

Over the edge,

Spinning out into danger.

Circling in the slipstream

The parachute unzipped too late,

Rips with the weight.

Over the cliff edge

Into the valley

Of dead men piled

With bony parts protruding.