The Black Clock Arms

I.

Keith stands just outside the Black Clock Arms,
smoking a tab and wearing an immaculate set
of clothes. His metallic gold waistcoat goes perfectly
with the glowing fag-end and the plush blue
of his softest suit is spectacular against the fading
of the sky. Dan inside is belting any one of a number of
appropriate tunes but Keith's face fades to smoke
as his hand brushes the flower in his lapel. Essentially,
though, this is no scene of great poignancy. Keith

is just having a tab, and the drag-queen karaoke
night inside is hidden by the Black Clock Arms's
bathroom-style blurring windows. It's a Tuesday
early evening and now Keith has gone back in.
A pigeon pecks his still-smoking cigarette butt.