The Black Clock Arms

III.

Geoff's shined velvet seat, black with polished
dirt, cools in the almost-night Black Clock Arms
now, but he feels the sun out here. He'd lost touch
with the flesh of himself until it started to brown.

He sits several feet from the people he recognises
but can't place the names of; their stories aren't enough
out here in the light. His pint and his arse reach a unison
of temperature: one warming on the bar, the other

cooling on a bollard, while he realises how little
he cares about the barstool now the only place
he's allowed to chain smoke is here. The only thing
missing is a place for the smaller papers, spread
open and every sentence read and repeated over again
to kill the time he has more of, now, to himself.