The Pub

 

Run the smokers' gauntlet doorstep

Blasted hot air open portal

Navigate a less dense scrum

The patient wait, the pint to come

 

The hand pump oozes air and froth

To change the barrel he heads off

All transactions somewhat halted

Pint of Rowton, ready salted

 

Barman, smart assesses you

shirted, tied and no tattoos 

Pulls the pint, avoids eye contact, 

hands the change to end the contract

 

The hum and throb of Friday's public

Crescendos, fades, the banter club 

Straining duke box Boy George Karma

YMCA a village drama

 

Tight knit groups of friends and locals

The stranger navigates the pitfalls

The hidden rules of who sits where

Tries not to look conspicuous here 

 

Sepia photos, posidriven

Glanced at, might as well be hidden 

Pastel walls, fake wooden floor

Safety glass in every door. 

 

Tiffany lamps with dull brass fittings

Cast iron tables, pews for sitting

Roman numerated clock 

A waiting room where no trains stop

 

Plates with springed wire wall mount hangers 

Juxtapose white Wharfedale speakers 

Pewter four faux candled lighting

Smoke detector green light flashing

 

The flat screen huge in pride of place

Hangs up above the fire place

For once a blank and silent screen

Where once a mirror would have been

 

Crisp and nut pack table litter 

Amidst the wine and coke and bitter

Mostly men with half full pints 

Mostly women ice and slice

 

Phones flashed and checked, no bloody signal 

Moans about the network dismal 

Photos shared, a private joke

Into a pub there walks this bloke

 

Seated near refurbished dart board

The player focused on her next throw

The stranger reads oblivious

Sociometric isolate

 

Another night, another pint

The jukebox soundtrack permanent

But drink up now has perfect timing 

Hi ho bloody silver lining 

 

GMJ October 2016