Giant Pennies

NOTE: This was originally entitled "At Boots We Know How Precious Your Memories Are." I liked that title, but the publishers of the first anthology to feature anything I wrote didn't. So they won.

These tables are giant pennies, halo of fruit machine and

ripple of lager reflected in the pimpled surface.

No need for an upholsterer to mend the ancient tear in

this leather settee. This pub, this part of town is long gone.

Your leather jacket; ripped in sympathy with the surroundings.

Your hands, smudged golden with years of nicotine and leaves.

An archaeologist by accident; I stumbled upon

a plectrum of yours only last week. Instantly I saw you

fretting on some chord change, ash whitening the strings.

Through fingers and tears, from my bedroom window I see the

motorway that took you.

That pub, that part of town long gone.

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