The Meaning of Life
Mid-day, ‘The Laughing Fish’,
I sipped a pale ale aperitif,
a hopped starter to pub lunch,
best sup-slowed (law-aggrieved).
For the first hour we talked
of many long-accrued ‘things’:
Of Spits’, curved rear panels,
and loomed-wiring.
By the end of the second hour,
we pint-crept to short sips,
in a bloke-slowed collision,
of tall-tales needing grip.
On ‘The Fish’s’ steps we stood,
under the sun-burning Gods,
our agreement on ‘The Meaning’,
we agreed should be lost.
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