Time Please
Shipwrecks crowd the pub taproom
a hot breath of defeat curdles the air.
There's a coal fire;
there are black tables, small and round
just enough for two pint glasses.
One cloth cap asks another:
"What you sinking?"
He means 'drinking'.
Both old men
keep their eyes anchored
to drool-stained beer mats.
Gimpy table legs
limp aside as if kicked.
Empty glasses
drip a jaded wisdom,
each foam-licked drop
falling back
into incomprehension.
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