Openings

I am sure – Jack Daniel’s
never used to have this
moulded wrap [tough to
peel – do blunt drunkards
cope?] – my biting knife
splits its throat – Ripper
Jack’s wrist in my hand
as nip-pours of whiskey
connect in me – fusing –
by my sips & swallows/

She spoke – talked – how
do I tell you how it went?
She blew honey flavours
over my bourbon spikes –
she offered me her drug –
without a fumbled sleep
of interruptions – just my
too-keen talk – I chat too
much – it is my downfall/
My tip-empty glass sits –
waiting on her confect of
words to sweeten my sip

Coffee?

He walked her to her car
because his rare chance –
a quite rude assumption
of a kiss could improve

Their talk skipped to weather
and about recent high rainfall
and that expanse of blue sky –
those age-old silence fillers

They stood facing each other
He fumbled under his bravado
with a quickened giddiness
of mid-teen awkwardness

even at – his guess then –
their nearly-fused ages
of just over – or just under –
their shared centum of years

How keenly he craved
to sip fresh desire – at his age –
in a pay and display car park
having over-run
his paid-for time

Bar Work

For P.

//Grown men bear-hug
in the cinema bar –
this town’s tough men –
they stand held-hard
//with doffed back pats –
almost softly-kissed –
after sunken fizzed beers
after curried fears –
//and the curled-hair girl
quick-checks her sly glance
in the double door glass
of the flung entrance
//That beautiful woman
on the other sunk sofa
before heading out
sinks a sobering soda
//and I’d walk her home
above staggered kerbs –
struggling – still holding –
her wine-tipped words