I am not that someone
who revels in hate
Her look at the bar
left me cold-eye weighed
Poor Phil-the-farmer
could not match my smile
as Val took her drink
leaving her stare to scythe
Those Witches of Newick
have stirred their dark brew –
they sweat its rank scent –
a mephitic perfume
I settled with my pint
in the turned barrel seat –
my lonely remove
was my greeting defeat