They’re swaying to the barman’s question.
Sweat sits on foreheads stronger than
a vow of silence. The one in a pristine tracksuit
with flecks of half-digested damp chip
in his moustache orders a round of ciders.
The barman puts his mop down and chooses
a quiet life. He pours the first pint
and some chip drops to the floor.
The football referee on TV blow his whistle
for the game to kick off.

© Carl Burkitt 2023