Brine

Chained, his bicycle props stale
hostel door. No Brel fish-heads
for sale. Cockles, winkles,
the unidentified, glared,
half pint glassy-eyed stare
from his proffered basket.

Old enough to blister bollocks
with a double-barrelled curse,
she hacked, 'I've seen better
on the rack of a hearse'.
Back shuttled, he squints a wince
at the thought, horse brass reflected.

Hung on lone rusted nail, a frail
spectre of iron-shod luck side winks
an ale slop-pail scryed future.
Residue mired in sticky squalor hop
pools, damp rizla papered parlour.
Past, steeped in sedimentary beer
mats, bar archive laden culture.

Chokes a laugh; he could start
another batch of homebrew on this.
No need to scratch his custom,
foreshortened,
as the taproom bell rings time.