Lock in

The clock scratches four,

and the pub is dog-lit.

You and six other young men sit,

ranged at the top end

of the long wooden bar, after hours,

in hard, easy uniform: long hair,

ripped jeans and Ramones leathers.

You’re skint, so you split

a round with Michael,

who gets all the credit.

You pour for others,

amazed to be there.

Then Boo skins up some Thai grass, sweet and sharp.

It shocks you, then melts into your blood with the lager

and whisky and Pernod and cider. Time scatters.

It occurs to you that this, maybe,

is the reason Boo doesn’t speak much.

The jukebox plays ‘Do It Again’

and now all that matters

is the inescapable fact that

you’ve got to walk home for Christmas

dinner. You’re wired, blown to pieces.

Torn rizla in the December wind.

You are, like your hard-worn

baseball boots,

exotically fucked.