It seems like she enjoyed pouring me
that pint. The bubbles giggled their way
out of the tap and her shoulders laughed
at my southern accent. Certainly, Sir,
she said when I asked for dry roasted peanuts
and I wondered whose face I was
wearing. The young man with biceps
on his triceps smiled the length of the bar
and the woman curtseyed
thinking she was in my peripheral vision.
The pub was my secondary school playground
and I had a choice: wear loneliness as a crown
or bow, give a royal wave, keep my chin up.
© Carl Burkitt 2023