You don’t get more old Soho
than bumpy mahogany walls
plastered with wartime illustrations
a hanged line of pots and pans
press clippings of David Beckham
and a signed Robbie Williams plaque.
By mid evening latecomers
shuffle and stand beside the bar,
seating beneath the TV long gone,
feeling slightly in the way hugging
one of the rare Brodie’s beers on tap
built on the experiments of a bath.
Upon the smug midday gaming
of an extended springtime lunch
high percentage, cask IPA foam
sunk towards damp beer mats
as fleetingly as the world’s rights
triggered up from empty guts.
Tipsy steps retraced cobbled paths
the last remaining record stores
and a meat-free sandwich shop
that armed the hungry proletariat
with batons of cheddar and pickle
to keep afternoon duties at bay.