The car park next door to a pub is
doused in amber light only seen
in Liverpool; is it winter noon or
summer night? No one knows,
no one cares.

The pub’s double door opens and it
exhales breaths of beer drunk, cracked
up talk, words thought of but not
spoken in fear of retribution, fag ends
smouldering in ashtrays and barmaids
hot armpits sprayed with deodorant.

Blends with exhausts and spilt oil from
gloomy cars and the dankness of
steamed up car windows where lovers
hastily struggle with bras and knickers
And the excitement of infidelity.

Perhaps the amber light is left over
sunlight of a spring day long ago when
love was pure and laughter rang
of melodious simplicity and not out of spite
for the misfortune of fellow man.