POETRY: LIKE CHUCKING A CHIP UP WINDSOR ROAD BY PAUL TRISTRAM

Communal is not a word

one normally wants to associate

with the tender act of intimacy.

But call a spade a spade and all that!

There’s quite a queue gathering outside

and it’s still only lunchtime

on a dreary, Winter’s Wednesday.

I swear I heard someone in the pub

last weekend boast about settling a debt

with his son’s school dinner tickets

Why do I even still come here?

Well, it’s nice to catch up with the boys

and have a quick doorstop natter

with the Old Man, now isn’t it, mun.

Written by Paul Tristram