‘The Bird in Hand’ was not our favourite bar
but you know how things are. I met you outside
and it had been a while so I dropped everything
into the opportunity to catch up. Behind the frosted windows
a wood-panelled corridor split the premises
into two large rooms; in one, old men shoved dominoes
over a scuffed table, and in the other
a man in his twenties looked into a cloudy glass
waiting for something to happen.
I lent you fifty quid — the first time you had ever asked
to borrow from me, and I would struggle until pay day.
You were ‘gasping for a beer’ and I had to laugh
at your urgency. I don’t remember what else was said,
only the situation, your familiar form
carrying some burden to the bar.
Then you slipped behind frosted glass,
and I awoke in the dark of night,
feeling short-changed, in another country,
another currency, and you, a year dead,
with the money I never lent you.