The Pub

Stillness, the eye of
the storm, the hubbub
revolves a loud
revolution of voices and
laughter glasses and walk
across the boarded floor, the candles
gutter but are
futile through the smoke, a
subduing haze of nonsense and
Friday avenue blues, the
week gone for
well or ill into that
dark tunnel behind that
has no entrance, turn as
we might.   And your
frosty steps are treading
towards me through
darkening air, the sun
gone down in flame
and distance, the city
lights spring on and a
golden glass of wine
for swallowing
keeps me warm where my
hands are still against
the table, the floor
reverberating under my feet
to the stereo
booming at the ear -
the young are here
in droves, and
fluttering with
excitement at
another day won.

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