pub, on a monday afternoon.
I find myself a quiet corner,
lower my drink onto one of those shelves
that jut out of dividing walls,
and perch on a stool.
I pick the one whose structural
uncertainty complains the loudest—
figuring that discomfort runs
parallel to authenticity.
another man nods towards me.
I’d tell him I’m a poet, I think,
drunk on the knowledge
that we will never speak.
the younger man behind him
slinks around the dark-wood bar
that is ignorantly blissful to its outdatedness.
he wears a waistcoat, smartly,
and his hair looks like it doesn’t
require the use of electric clippers.
I could kiss him— above the canopy of chatter
that dampens the fizzing playback
of radio 1 and the flat, synthetic
ring of a busy landline phone.
the table of americans beside me
nearly demystify the moment.
but I incorporate them in as
brash nouveaux-riches tourists
who i’ll charm with knowledge
of their precious hemingway.
Uncultured Review 