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Poem

Looks like a nice day

When my wife has treatment for her legs, I notice most patients are women 
who in their youth had worn high-heeled shoes; but what do I know
it could have been childbearing, weakening the bones.
I sit outside a small café; the weather has gone from overcast to mild sun.
Four workers enter; three of them are black, painting the house 
for a man who looks Irish but isn’t, he is middle-aged and has curly grey hair 
and drinks a pint of ale while painters in sudden sobriety drink water
 they eat a stew of meat and beans
On another table sits a tall black man, I think he is a poet, If, my old friend 
Jimmy, who has been sober for 30 years, would have said the tall man 
was an alcoholic drinking wine so early.
It was a nightmare going to a restaurant with Jimmy, scanned tables 
and if anyone had more than two beers, he said they were alcoholics, 
I didn’t dare drink in his presence.
Sometimes, Jimmy went on my nerves, was hectic and got irritated
when things didn’t go his way also smoked like a chimney
This working-class neighbourhood is blessed, a place peaceful,
 free of racism and the dreaded BLM.

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