Men wear cob white shirts: beer belly slings,
Mute gold lager sloshing in dimpled tankards.
Their colours echoed in the uniform of their fags.
They roar and guffaw.
Switch, inhale, sigh.
Kiddy-giddy, I’m a straw chewed to uselessness,
Glass bottle bruised gums.
Flat, warm sweet cola dances on my tongue, clings to my teeth,
I smell spilled beer and Sunday cooking
The air is smoke, smoke, smoke.