In a dirty, dingy dive, in a dire haze
of old memories,
I sit with Uncle Patrick; dead quiet as always
with a Campari and Soda
to soothe his sad loneliness
and thoughts of life in disorder.
That’s all he ever mumbled about
at our local in town;
our kind of joint,
sticky underfoot, tables and walls alike.
It was a dodgy place, only making it
through hard times selling cheap wine
and playing scratched vinyl
on broken turntables with cigarette burns.
The Sticky Joints –
Growing up on Saturday afternoons,
drinking Coca-Cola for each of his tipples.
Now I sit and think of him
in the same old place,
vinyl replaced by compact disc,
record player by Jukebox.
He will always be with me on a day like today,
cold and miserable,
alone with my Campari and Soda,
loneliness and change when you least expect it,
and thoughts of life in disorder.