it’s a wooden bar
a house whiskey
and a shelf guinness
the game’s on 
pints rest on the front
edge of a coaster
because the bar’s slanted
who knows how old it is
i know who: the people who
come here because
the people who
come here
come here
have always come here
for a hundred years
the old guys in jumpers
and the young guy with them
the ex-footballer bellied up
and the couple in their spots
they speak a common
language that’s mine
and not mine
in the morning i’ll be gone
and when the sun finally
swallows this dumb globe
she’ll drink the last few
patrons still sipping a pint