It’s Camille’s final fuckable day.
She wallows in sangria,
cynicism and Amy Winehouse.
Until tonight, didn’t realize
she’d exceeded her expiry date.
Regrets unconsummated lust
she has squandered.
Contemplates a sexless tomorrow.
Young wenches at Mozzi’s
crowd the bar, cadge free drinks
from horny tourists out slumming.
Display their long legs,
hot pink toe nails,
skanky, uplifted cleavage.
Camille remembers taut, carefree youth,
turning heads, fending off passes.
Surveys the sorry lot of sodden men
spilling beer and complaining.
Sighs, buys her own glass of wine.
Will take herself home for a night
of old schmaltzy movies.