More poetry about life on the street.

One in the Morning

Michael Arnold

 

You know

you’ve had enough.

It’s one in the morning,

the sensibles

have gone home

but there’s one

more place

you can try.

The bar

is in lock down,

but there’s a back

entrance

and what the hell

if you get raided;

he gets a fine

and you get warned,

or the other way round.

 

The beer is warm

the spirits expensive

and you wouldn’t

go there in the day

it’s such a pit.

You order a beer

and the barman

fills it short.

He looks at you

quizzically

and says I thought

you wanted

a topper.

You get it filled

and ask for a brandy

on the side.

 

A sister slinks

up to you, asks for

a drink

and spells out

the proposition.

It seems,

for a tenner

you can go home

with her, get a bath

and spend

a leisurely night

in her bed.

You politely refuse

which makes

her sweet mood

melt faster

than an ice cream

in the Sahara.

She calls you a

prick and picks out

a sweaty fat guy

who looks like

he’s got a tenner

to waste

and is not worried

about a months

‘clap’ appointments

after.

 

The place stinks

of sweat

and stale perfume;

so you have

a couple

more drinks

and go home.

Trying to remember

which is north

and if you

should follow

a star; any star, as

long as it improves your life. 

 © 

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