The Red Lion
Apart from the worn stone-step
where drunks still topple,
or the hand-painted sign,
all has changed,
now a neon glow backlights a plasticized fascia,
all ‘local color’ painted over.
In the car park,
two frizzy blondes face off,
The smaller has plastic bangles,
she rattles like a Zulu warrior,
fingers stab through cusswords.
Youths shout
over the clomping-thump
of their car radios.
"I used to come here often"
I explain to my incredulous wife.
"Good times."
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