The pub had shut long ago
by its entrance a curious smell of beer, tobacco and disinfectant lingered.
A steady insipid drizzle
hazed sepia streetlight into a liquid mist,
the scene had the feel of a third rate seaside resort in November.
Everything closed,
no late café where I could pretend to eat and drink wine.
I had to go back onboard my ship
read a book and try to sleep.
The thought of that was so overwhelmingly boring
that I felt suicidal.
She was standing in a newsagent’s doorway
smelling of whisky, damp hair and fags.
‘Woodbine the great little cigarette’ a sign behind her proclaimed,
the letters were faded blue
and they didn’t sell this brand anymore.
‘Know of a place were I can get a drink?’
‘Sure at my house but you have to pay.’
‘Sure baby.’
We watched telly
drank whisky
and lulled our brains into silence,
when the bottle was empty
went to bed,
made love
and I thought she was wonderful.
When I awoke it was still dark
but a new day had made its threatening presence felt,
she woke too looked twice my age,
had been crying black tears
and had the shakes badly.
She got up to make tea
and I could hear her taking a new bottle out of the cupboard
and drinking from it,
then she went into the loo.
Feeling wretched by this new reality
I got up too
and had a hefty slug of the bottle.
She offered to make me some toast
but I wasn’t hungry.
‘Have drink before you go’
‘Yeah, ok.’
We had several and ended up in bed again.
It was late afternoon when I got down to the docks,
my ship had gone,
and it was getting dark.
The insipid drizzle continued.