THE COMING OF SPRING
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?
I’ve
not drunk in the Prince Bonaparte for years
But
if I went I would miss the smoke and the spilled beer
(It’s
more merlot now than ESB)
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 would not rejoice.
(This originally appeared in The Spectator and is included in a forthcoming collection, called 'Private Places' (Indigo Dreams))
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