#42 - Dances With Traffic Wardens

Inside the scented envelope, tucked beneath the windscreen wiper
a scalloped card reads: The Guild Of Traffic Wardens requests
the pleasure of your attendance at our annual ball.
£50 unclamping fee.

In the vaulted hall deep below Manchester,
sweat condenses on low stone arches,
dripping back down onto the heads
of beak-masked courtesans
locked in a slow pavane.
The stench of mothballs
wafts from a band
shackled to a dias, dismally plucking at lutes.
Tafetta drags through grime. The punch is watered-down
to a tasteless gruel. No one laughs here.
No one dares stop.