to feel the hot hands of god
reaching up my spine
and death whispering
like a crazy sharp-eyed drunk.

Irritated
I try to ignore him
at first

and failing that
to make
polite conversation.

But you know what it's like
talking to a drunk
and how hard it is sometimes
to make out
what they're saying.

Jesus, I just came in here
for a quiet drink,
I think
I'm going to tell him to fuck off,
but then I realise

he's not talking at all,
but humming to himself
and it sounds ok.

It's ok.

I feel like a bit of an eejit,
over-reacting again,
taking it all so seriously,
I get up from the bar
and dance down at the jukebox.

I can hear him now
in the music,
the old women clapping out of time,
the men dancing round the pool table,
the girl lurching in the door
slurring her words.

I can hear him
in the street
taxis running the puddles,
the homeless fella on the bridge
with the soft eyes,
the key in the latch,
the creak of the bed,
the dreamless sleep
of the just
and unjust
dreamlessly sleeping
together.