Men wear cob white shirts, beer belly slings.
Mute gold lager sloshes 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
I am smoke, smoke, smoke.