Silenus In The Brewery Tap

 

light fights its way

across a peeling window frame

and crashes lazily

upon a dark wooden table

where a man sits

stooped by work and alcohol

so that he seems

to stare for guidance in a pint pot

that stands half consumed

while froth slides down its sides

 

street noise scrabbles

to overcome the slow whumpwhump of a ceiling fan

that tries in vain

to cool the humid closeness in the room

in each corner

sits a clone of the slumping man

engrossed in living

each second of a Friday afternoon

away from cacophony

with crossword book or poetry or racing news

 

the barman turns to face the clocks

that hang above each spectres head

whose souls suspended

scratch to drag them from their hauntings

ticking tocking ticking tocking

counter-rhythms echoing and bouncing

from the panelled walls

that close in and deaden living

into drips and slurps

and slowly seeping beer mats

 

from the cellar

fresh aromas screaming hops and malt

come tumbling up the stairs

and wrap around the cellar man

who cloaked in ancient mysticism

nods to each assembled worshipper

as he passes on his way to the latrines

where they all visit

with their votive offerings

to the pagan god Dionysus

 

then one by one

they come back from their solitude

check wristwatches

and contemplate the journey home

to empty rooms

soap operas football matches bad news

they return their empty glasses

to the sticky topped counter

and the landlord bows his head

and blindly says ‘Same Time Next Week……”