Small town drama

No-one knew for sure why the pub was closed
But our tongues all had their suspicions,
And by the time the doors caved in
Local lips were sealed tight
With the three day old squeals we’d heard about at midnight;
The bleating kids holding their rucksacks tight,
While Mike from the bike shop
lifted the boot up
Told the landlord it was over
How he was keeping her cooped up
And she squawked in the headlights
Flapping fingers amidst their flight
Shrill voice insisted she was tired of this life
Tired of the fights
Tired of telling lies
And her tyres told the truth
Across the tarmac out of sight.

So as we returned to the bar, we were somewhat surprised
To find him still ready, shirt ironed;
Smile firm in place
Chuckling over frothing pints,
Contentment welded on his face
His greying eyebrows and cheeks shaking
You would have been mistaken
For thinking he was happy

Except...

This huge wall display of olives
That used to be behind him was gone.
Those neon green and black jars
That had dominated the bar space,
Where she had swooped in, replaced
The scratchings, the pickled eggs
And uncouth snacks with olives instead

Now those jars were sacked from the back bar
And although we’d heard he’d said nothing
As she’d driven off in that car
In the calmness of his surrender,
The olives had been his only scalp
He had ripped them out,
Let out one desperate shout
by placing

Pork pies

Loads and loads

And loads

Of ugly, smelly, dry
Pork pies

With him in the middle, nestled
Safe within a fort of brown crusty testicles
And so he seemed the same
But for those fatty sentries that sat
Watching him wish for those long lost years back

And he never ever grumbled.
He never once mentioned the kids
But every Friday when he’d offer us a pie to go with
Our pint
We’d stop laughing
And our lives and our loves seemed so easy, so hasty
Conscious of the monstrous
welt of pain that hung from his neck
Sloppy, as if bandaged with gelatine and pastry.