B is for Baker Street

 
Fuck this DUMP!
This tourist pub
Where the barman can't even pour a pint of Guinness.
'Let it stand,' I want to shout.
‘LET-IT-STAND!’  

But I don't say anything because Cecelia chose the place
And she's Lu's favourite aunt.
In her 70s she is, and come all the way down from Kilburn.
KILBURN for Christ's sake
Where she’s been mugged 3 times.
And no wonder, I think,
Limping along with a stick,
With gold around her neck,
With her handbag swinging open.

At the bar, some old boy in a flat cap barks,
‘Every day has its dog,'
And raises his beer to me,
But I ignore him and look at Lu,
Who looks at Cecelia,
Who lifts a hand and pats her hair.

Then she turns and winks at me,
Winks at ME!
And starts telling us stories of Greece in the ‘60s
And a Captain named Rix.
‘I was young and in love and, well, you can imagine, can’t you?’ she says.
‘I can try,’ I tell her.
And I do.
I try to imagine her at 17,
Rolling around on a bed,
Naked and wet,
But all I get back is this image of wrinkled flesh `
And a whiff of death.

Flat Cap cracks, ‘there’s no fire without smoke,’
And looks over at Cecelia.
She raises her glass and gives him the nod and
I nearly choke on my drink.

'What do you do, Andrew?' Cecelia asks,
Her eyes as dark as manholes
‘This and that,' I tell her, and she seems fascinated by this.
She offers to read my palm to see what the future holds.
She tracks the lines on my hand,
But then she suddenly gives up,
Gives it a squeeze, and
Says the light is too low to see anything tonight.

Flat Cap howls, ‘every silver lining has a cloud.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ I bark back, and knock back my drink.
But I need to slow down, I think.
I don’t want another incident, I think.
Not like the one on my stag, I think.
Out on the street
With a lump hammer!

Fletch Fletcher