thoughts of rome

After a week on the carpet socks turn white
And crusty around the toes
While red wine steeps in glasses
Turning the bottom into tiny-winey crystals
The smell of caramelised sugar and
Hangovers and
Spaghetti bolognaise
Like silly Italian thoughts of Rome
Or restaurants
In the west end
Which have checked tablecloths to fool you
And accents which grow tired
By the time you reach desert
And which collapse into fitful dreams
Halfway through the coffee course
(wait for the mints with the bill)