Who Is John Barrowman? we joked
fingering through HMV’s plastic and tree emporium
faintly inquisitive but still sick of the sights;
Martine McCutcheon’s debut novel,
key ring straps embroiled with a TV pop band’s logo.
In the pub we sighed, about the number of Tescos appearing,
the broken cigarette machine and our swallowed coins,
getting more stressed and running to a tube station’s kiosk
to stand in cold weather that made us even more aggrieved,
as we talked about gym and diets, taking a last drag.
A Geordie bar girl’s warm northern smile
set us on our way, weaving through Kings Cross,
past miniature Irish pubs and university offices,
lights still turned on above dedicated students
or teachers with no friends and/or time for a Sunday evening.
From a half past one meet to window shop guitars
through Sunday roasts and sponsored Christmas lights,
we walked in the key of disgruntlement, grumpy old men
but only half the age and putting the world to rights,
digesting the solace of a good friend’s sounding off.
Then the separate ways, headphones slivering into ears
and familiar routes teasing impatient bladders.
Engineer works stretched non office life by an hour,
Monday morning’s shirt wasn’t ironed nor hung
but the weekend had been milked, drank, for all it’s worth.