the fox 23.10

i sink into cherry leather

my palms sticking to sodden oak

making little tears in a john smith’s beer mat.

this isn’t your local

it’s mine.

but you slide into a corner table

and slot in like you belong.

you blend into the depressing wallpaper

and sip a lager shandy.

i can see our words floating around between us

stringing themselves into sentences.

the bash of a fist into wood

signalling an immaculate point has been made.

we solve all the world’s problems over cheap lager.

i realise i could stay here forever,

scooping 20p’s out of my jean pockets

and fingering them into the jukebox.

playing is a term used loosely

for darts and pool

(as i could see double).

the barmaid laughs at my jokes

and tells me i look just like my mother when i dance,

all limbs.

WORD OF THE DAY: divine “of or like God or a god.”