In the pub, on quiz nights,
it is his specialist subject,
their design, shape, colour, their meaning.
His home is a flat in the centre of town
from where, at weekends, he watches the streets
waken, live, play, quieten to one stray drunk.
At work he adds figures, counts money,
tallies floats and bank books,
invoices and chases bad debts.
He hates oafs who swear in public,
girls who talk loudly
and who drink from bottles in the street.
His wishes are to have a car with laser headlights
to atomize bad drivers,
and to be an invisible helicopter.
At night, in unsettled dreams,
he replays his life,
talks honestly to himself.
Saturday Night Desperate
Ragged Raven Press
