in a huge Geordie pub
full of huge Geordies
I sit reading Lorca
while a woman’s hilarity
seems to loop
“The Laughing Policeman”
the stout steadily sinks
as I wait my turn
to recycle ska
under the gaze
of a punter whose beard
is a poorly-cleaned paint brush
many rounds later
midnight will send us back south
the clock springing forward
to circle our hangovers.
