The mice were not stirring,
but everyone else in Downing Street was.
Wine and cheese flowing free,
with a seasonal Spotify playlist ordering people about the dance floor of the damned,
kissing without caution,
raising a glass to the great art of getting away with it.
The spirit of the season was with them,
and they were hoarding it,
lording it over the undesirables outside,
with their melancholy melody.
A SPAD turned up the speakers,
to drown out the sobbing from the streets.
Britain was awash with grief,
breaking apart and breaking down,
but it didn’t break through to Abominable Alexander and his jovial friends.
Far away from all the fancy food and dreadful dancing is a man.
Hands pressed against a Care Home window,
fingers frozen as the tears begin their treacherous trek,
and his whole world wastes away on the other side.
His Wife reaches a weak hand towards the glass,
and there is silence,
because this is not a party.
This is not a party,
this is not the forbidden fun, found at Downing Street.
This is real life,
the kind of times that the party goers can’t grasp,
because while Britain broke down,
they were breaking the rules.