Taking Cocaine with Wendy Cope

In a dim‑lit flat where rain taps soft against the pane,
I find myself beside Wendy Cope, verses scattered like loose change,
Her laughter a quiet chime, the kettle’s sigh a steady beat,
While lines of white lie on the table, a stark, impatient feat.

She reads aloud a sonnet wry, about love’s fickle tide,
Her words a balm that softens edges, though the powdered grin beside
Glints cold as winter street‑lamps, promising a fleeting bright,
Yet each inhale pulls sharper shadows, a pulse that flirts with night.

We talk of metre, of the mundane, of tea that’s gone too cold,
The rhythm of her speech a counterpoint to the rush that takes hold.
In briticisms we linger—”fancy a biscuit?”, “quite the mess”—
While chemistry and conscience tussle in a restless, hushed caress.

The poem ends, the silence lingers, the cup now empty, stark,
A reminder that even wit can’t staunch the hollow in the dark.
We part, the street awash with neon, the city’s breath a sigh,
Two souls adrift—one in rhyme, one chasing clouds that flutter by.