The ladies wear tights: American tan or sheer black,  public house
Flouncy skirts, silky blouses,
Glossy hair and sheeny lips.
They are black velvet, deep cerise.
They click.

The men are buttoned into cob white, 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,
With glass bottle bruised gums.
Flat, warm sweet cola dances on my tongue, clings to my teeth.
I smell spilled beer and Sunday cooking
I’m cocooned in smoke.