A flute warbles a prelude to the percussive
chant of an all-male, football-fan-chorus.
The theme breaks through with a twang
of electric guitar. Screwed paper tumble weeds,
pitch in the breeze off the stairs. The air infused
with smouldering, cheap cheroot.
Hispanic attitude, leans against the aluminium
mule. Intent, that seems to bare my name, stares
out, over a nylon, chequer-board poncho.
Into this town they rattle, dragging each time-serving-clerk
from salacious dreams, with a clattering of buckets
and brushes, bottles and mops.
Here with a view to clean, here with a plan
to make off with our filth and fill the
dispensers with towels.
This is my place amigo and I call the shots:
but the only shooting that passes therein
is the spurt from a toilet duck jet
If you've any comments on this poem, Graeme Bes-Green would be
pleased to hear from you.