Hi there.
Here's a little true story, from when I was a young barman in London.
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| My photo from 1990 (when you could smoke indoors) The actual spot in question is where the bar (left) meets the wall |
Man in a corner
They came to get drunk at night
Or an excuse to get out
But during the day
It was the drunks who came
The oft kilter characters
That interested me most.
It was an upmarket bar
In St. Johns Wood, London
Yet, not without its desperadoes
Such as the young Goth couple
Who could only afford one beer apiece
Sitting on it for hours
Being English, I guess warm beer didn’t bother them.
A woman in her early thirties
In every other day
With slurred speech
Some sort of accident
I never asked
For a few at lunch
I got the feeling, a disability pension.
A well-dressed blonde man, about forty
Sat in the corner
And bought an expensive bottle of champagne
And polished it off
Almost every day.
He would give away
As much as he spent
In tips
So we always looked after him
As we were employed by a brewery
The pay being woeful
He was always buying people drinks
Earning lingering parasites
He was wealthy
Yet, seemed very alone.
One day he stopped coming in
From then on
That was something very empty about that corner
I wished I had found out more
Such is the mystery of some people.
More Poetry
Have a good week,
Take care for now.
Peace
Anthony
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