wheels within wheels

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.

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