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.