Bar

At The Bar

Four pulls on the engine fills it full.
A tiny head.
Well practised in politeand useless chat,
I know them all so well.
I listen, but I watch the fruit machine.

Paul's youngest died three weeks ago.
For now at least his pain relief is free.
His wife was driving home at the time.
Through Milnrow in the fog one afternoon.

Count the matches. Forty-three per box.
I'd love a cigarette though I don't smoke.
I'd have a little chat but no one will.
I watch the postman fill the fruit machine.

It's very rare I ever get a tip
but when I do it's from the Bird's Eye rep.
He drinks Scotch and soda in the day,
And talks about fish fingers with prawn sauce.

Go home and sit and eat and watch TV.
My married sister often telephones.
"Last orders at the Duck with me and Carl?"
Gooseberry. I watch the fruit machine.