Listening To Born To Run With Mark E Smith In The Castle Hotel

This poem is a sick note, a running joke
I had fallen off the commute, truant
and happened upon you

drinking alone in the parlour room
on that Tudor lit Tuesday morning
God, was still yawning

the pearls of your eyes
pleading like the stars
across the bar

the ale, owl brown and heavy
as the silence, mild
inklings of violence

on our low horizon, an upright piano
holding its breath, like a coffin
played to death

hushed backstage
praying the crossword, tramps like us
until the needle drops

and you raise your glass
mid Bruce, mid chorus
I think I heard you mumble ‘Dear Mortals’

the day is long, I walk towards
the juke box, buy another song
but when I return, you’ve gone

old habits, die young
I ‘sup up sunshine’
the day has retrieved thee

I just want to taste my ghost
before it leaves me.