The Antics Roadshow

He's facing the old man down
soon as the car door slams.
This is it. He graciously tolerated
her howler monkey housemate,

his 'Whojoo thinkyoowar's
and the needly-fingered local
doubled over the bar
when she picked up her wage.

"Boyfriend's here to count his share,
I see. God, he laughed that off.
He even ignored the needless,
mousetrap-trigger language
of other rankled motorists
when the lights changed. But
this
is
it.

"Throw stones at my bloody car,
would you? His fists
are hovering coconuts, ready to drop.
The old man cowers,
a bent little tree. Onlookers
clock them but do nothing.

That evening, he describes the incident
eleven times
in four different pubs:
The Mischief.
The Ribs of Beef.
The Lawyer.
The Glasshouse.