Melancholy Scenes in a Public House

Leytonstone, London, 24th.August 1984

Are those girls whores, or is it just bad luck
to look so whorish sitting there?
Are the men their pimps who buy them drinks,
ploughing profits back to lighten lunch?

And the girl with her head on the table,
who is she? And what is so upsetting that
her friends ignore her and pretend
she's had too much, is just not there?

I doubt she's drunk so early in the day,
but then I'm not the client she just left
who wanted something extra that
a few stiff gins made easier to do.

Perhaps it's just her boyfriend who's been nasty
though she bears no marks that show from here
except those mental scars that mark her out
and weigh her down, aslant an alehouse table.

Was this just imagination running wild?
Maybe it's just the fault of pubs, where
strong drink clouds even simple things
giving depth to emotions unfelt elsewhere,
turning us all inwards and back-to-front
surveyors of inaccessible places.

(Another from an old notebook that I felt was worth rescuing)