A Wake In A Pub

Night closes.
The band finished hours ago.
Sweat and Carlsberg
mix violently on
the damp streets.
Silence stays the
darkness, cut bluntly
by echoes of
The Kooks from
a flat on
Coronation.

Nothing seems
to slow this
city down.
Buses at midnight.
Late night pubs.
Windows advertising
mobiles and Sheesha.
The steady grumble
of a Vauxhall
in the distance.

Not unlike a funeral
where the guests
don't know each other.
Solemly watching
as the night dies
along with their pints.

Maybe they'll write
songs about her
one day, full of
drunken verses and
a chorus about old Joe.
Someone will even put
a bridge in about Villa
and how they always
fall short.

One by one, passing
in front of the coffin,
looking only slightly,
heads cocked to the right.
Always moving.
One day
it's gonna stop.

Just not tonight.