Here we go.

I go to a pub.

It’s a nice pub.

In fact - it’s great.

It’s massive and cool and the barmaids
aren’t on the take.


I talk and flirt
and peacock my shirt
and we speak for much longer
than the expected “curt” -
that “difficult to describe” lingering
over names and prices,
eyes darting to eyes -
thinking
of thinking
of fingering
right here.

Absurd.



And I walk away.
Back to my corner.
To the safety of isolation
in a corner snug.

Headphones in.

Pen out.

Writing a poem about how no-one ever talks anymore.
The irony, apparently so loud that it can’t be self-heard.