Hair meticulously shampooed, the rest of me just sponge-bathed over the week, nails cut, face close-shaven for 'the kiss', a daub of Canoë behind each ear, tux on, ticket given at the door,
Her entrance then, in glittered gown, her saucy, lit, electric glance,
Hurling my room key onto the stage, the applause and brass overture oversounding my cry just after shouting, the crowd-scuffle lost in the quick press of the ushers, the big bouncers.
All this echoing through the mockery at Precinct 8 and their holding cell, echoing through therapy.
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