Something's missing?
The typical British local pub, place to sit and sup a jar.
With regular hours and vases of flowers, all stood in a porcelain jar.
Glazed white, with shiny guilt edges, as Mr tells missus.
Will be home soon love, just having a pint with the lads.
Lady of the land, provides a welcoming smile.
Bright red lipstick and leopard print jeggings.
Once stopped by for conversation, sadly missing now.
A lonely snug corner to hide in, or a quiet place to rest and converse.
Somewhere to sit, snacking on crisps, in packets of foil, remarkable colours, contents clandestine.
A revelation, only when you pop  that packet.
Me, I'm not a drinker, just a mere deep thinker.
Now, all we have are places of disgrace, that open up early to sit and consume from breakfast till noon.
Filled with drinkers full of  issues, just past dawn until the twilight night-jars sing.
Early morning beer as a means of escape.
Not one ounce of culture, just scavengers, guys and gals just killing time. Mainly smoking ifs and butts, in smoking areas, with missing teeth and lacking joy.
All in a days work, I guess.
(C) LIVVI