there is little conversation
over dinner as we’re concentrating
on eating I wonder what we’ll
talk about after      ..

a sunday roast
washed down with a pint
got back on the coach
and belched.
what more do you want     ..

last time I wrote a poem that
was
any good was on the late lamented
deep underground poetry site about an elderly woman on the
bus who offered me a boiled
sweet,
I thought,
but no, thanks     ..

if you haven’t read any of the
british library crime classics, then
what is there left to talk about, muttered
the old bloke down the pub

sitting in a pub writing
a poem but it
wasn’t very good and the
beer was awful

p g wodehouse and
john betjeman made
life seem worth living
just to read them    ..

old bloke in the café reads his
newspaper religiously
over breakfast every morning and
thanks God for letting him be
for now