The Last Dancer

Stiffly drinking flat beer, atop the bar stool,
posted there by his inability to stand, even sober,

but, still, with a quick arm, a lifting pitch
of pint upon pint, as old thoughts limped,

like his legs did, on his way to this mounted spot,
bar side, beer-mat marked, holding a high court.

As drinkers washed in and out, to and from
the smokers’ yard, his thoughts bloated

with his supped pints – the warm gut hit
of bitter and crisps – sending him off again

to 1953, when he danced to rock and roll,
on The Pier, years before it fell into the sea.

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