Pals

Their faces are still there;
caricatures and cameos,
grinning mugs and jug ears.
Cheering, jeering chums
that would phone at four in the morning
to garble drunken thoughts,
make momentous plans,
or borrow ten quid.

The oddball humorist
and part-time suicide,
the drama queen
contesting her own shadow,
the poet who never wrote a poem.

The mon ami and mon amie
that drank for you
when you could drink no more.
Long after the late-night bus rides,
I see their features pressed against
softly glowing windows,
as London transports them
even to far off Ohio;
their lips silently mouthing –
a last goodbye or maybe just trying
to cadge another tenner.

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