april 29th

a poem about a pub



somehow i seem to have ended up
in greater londons least efficient pub
its quite full but cant be called busy
but none of the barstaff want to service me
im not sure if thats because theyre, arrogant, lazy
or just too stupid to need less than three
of them to work the debit card machine
10 minutes or so later im served
by the arrogant blonde one whose words
try to imply "im breezy but aplogetic"
whilst body language screams that "im-fit-and-i-work-behind-a-bar" rhetoric
when shes neither all that nor strictly speaking working
unless her job description reads "flirting and shirking"
so now im too much poorer
with not-quite-a-pint of beer
which im glad to have drunk
but not entirely sure
im pleased that it had to be here