Playing
pool at the Prince Bonaparte
Was
not always such a genteel pastime.
I’m
not saying you were going to be knifed
Or
have your gut perforated with a pool stick,
Just
that you got looked at. If you’ve been looked at
You’ll
know what I mean. The smoke was good
And
the stink of beer, and altogether the sense
Of
usedness the place had, like an old tool.
These
places are gone or going now
Because
renewal is the luxury we have time and money for
And
doesn’t the year do it, anyway?
Isn’t
it natural? Isn’t there a happy bruise or two
Of
purple crocuses on the green?
Don’t
we rejoice?
Between
shots I sip my merlot and wonder
Why
I miss the smoke and the spilled beer
And
even the being looked at, and I’m
afraid
That
in the good food and the new décor
And
even the svelte young women, I do not rejoice.
Wynn Wheldon
Originally published in The Spectator, November 2011, and reproduced here now because I have spotted crocuses and snowdrops on Judges Walk