it mingles with the sticky drinks,
sweet spillage souring overnight
on every ersatz surface lining
this padded cave. Blinking from daylight,

eyes distinguish sombre reds,
dejected greens and tarnished chrome.
Back in the gloom, a tired woman
talks into the telephone.

The barman is restocking shelves,
busy behind his shuttered grille,
polishing glasses - mundane work
amid such louche environs; still,

someone must balance up the books
and fix the licence, hire bands,
rig up the set each night, and hope
some bubble of delight expands.