Spoons

Art deco buildings
Grand empty spaces
Where voices used
To travel in time
Reflections, finding an ear
A decade too late
Now, just a backdrop
For a seventy-year old man
Drooling over his first pint
Certainly, it’s cheaper than
Waiting to die in chains
Spoons abundant
He splatters red sauce across
The dark-mahogony table
And waits patiently
To make passes
At the young waitress
While she cleans
The words from each ear
He remembers a friend
Long dead now
Leasing old buildings
Commercial opportunist
Shaking hands
In the business
Of doing business
With fleece holders
Woolly rights
“Keep yerr cotton on
It was just a joke”
He coughs
She offers him a light
To quicken his demise

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Spoons

Beaches

At night, beaches wash away
Moon bathing students
Adults wearing sunglasses
Townies showing disrespect
To the calmness, to the quiet
Stopping at petrol stations
On dark, twisty country roads
Pissing regardless of foliage
Yelling at anyone walking
The sleepy town streets after 1am
Where bars close at eleven
Rolling up my jeans to the knee
I’m wading towards
France or Ireland
Geography hard to recall
After a skinful of lager
Light breaks through
Someone drives us home
But not before, we leave
Our Mark in the sand

Beaches

Local

It used to be no problem
To trick a bartender
Beating the identification parade
Appearing to be underage
Sitting under the heated beams
In pub gardens, around
One small soft drink
Rummaging for a fifty pence piece
To smash a few pool balls
Rip a few stitches
Before card machines
Bar brawls were the price
You’d pay for stepping on
Someone else’s toes
Spilling drinks, hoping
The karaoke machine
Would update its stale
Old book, as old as
Questionable bar snacks
Landlords hard as nails
Chained to their jobs
Locked in well past time

Local