Closed Shop
The drunken argot of talk at the urinals,
half a pint of Old Rosie cradled,
the
chap
putting the world to rights and the flow
of taps with Grolsch and lush guest ales;
a jukebox playing
Peter
Sarstedt as rain
lashes at the windows, the sweet
drift
of
tobacco smoke from a half-open doorway;
whisky, gin, mixers, no shots or alcopops
and the honest measure of an open welcome;
from a pint of Guinness and my early-doors’
reading of Ferris’ fiction
to
a red-cheeked song
in the early hours of the morning; the doors
gently
closed,
the lights going out, the soaked
pavements and glow leading down Commonside.
© 2009
Salt Publishing Limited