Fridays circa 5p.m.

There’s nothing I like better doing

than sitting here in a quiet corner

of the pub

with my Mongolian beanie on

waiting for my mates to rock up

while I have a quiet read.

I know it smacks of vanity

when I pull out my iPhone

and scroll through my posts,

reading what I said, what others said,

how many likes I got.

I like what I wrote and how I say it:

the long, slouching sentences,

the laconic phrases

[Hey! I’m an Ausssie]

the odd syntax here and there

[ like the first line of this post ].

One should be as comfortable in one’s voice

as in the clothes one’s wearing.

I like the merry banter of patrons in the bar too,

the warm embrace of companionship

as I like to gather my poems around me

like boon companions

until my real friends, my flesh and blood friends,

turn up

See Ya!

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I hope old Schooner’s all right.

He looked a little cranky last time.

He knew something was coming down the pike.

Birds know. They have a crystal ball.

They foresee earthquakes, tsunamis.

He must have foreseen the sale of the pub

& the old drive-thru that housed his Taj Mahal

Of a cage where he held court rasping, See Ya!

To customers who had stopped to chat.

I hope he’s okay where he is.

Each Friday at the pub I raise my glass

To Old Schooner.

Here’s to you! I say. Stay cocky, dude.

See Ya!