If you must wear the face of shocked indignation

be warned, it is not a look that suits you,

or indeed flatters the features that are surrounded

by the years of hard drinking

or perhaps moaning twisted forceful tears

you have wrenched out of those crow lined,

feather scattered eyes. When you believe in your ugly

mind that what you say at four thirty in the long

cold festive driven afternoon is anything but crass,

that your gutter waiting mouth, spit and drawl

running from the side of your lop sided lips

as you wait one hand ready to slap,

then my disused friend,

you wonder why I got cross, back bit as you took the seat

away without politeness in your voice;

oh you can scowl at me all you want

over your fifth glass of pale piss wine,

you can try to tower above me and say with pretend

sarcasm to repeat what I said,

but after this, you are forgotten, whereas now

I am in your head.

Ian D. Hall 2016