Closing Times

Now – be forever consigned
to coughed-up-banter nights
at your threadbare old boys’ club –
propped behind spewed pints
of pump-drawn gut-brown beer

Your bent still good arm lifts
three quids worth of bowel-stripper
Last orders
and so a knocking back of pints
from unequal paid down rounds

And then that hundred-yard stagger
off to your desolate place –
a much less enticing thought
than just one more pour of best

A background outdoor chat
leaves you stood stock still

Now shuffle once more
with your pocket of shrapnel –
to be put in that jar in your hall