Tanked-up and black with grudges
clouds are milling, hooligans outside a pub.
First the fighting talk, now fists are flying;
soft at first, as if they’re only joking
but soon enough the body blows
are pummelling the ground – and me.
Punch-drunk and staggering
I stumble on, lead-limbed
till they get bored and slouch away
to find some other fool to pick on.
The weary sun returns
and with its sympathetic shine
points out the silver linings
dumped along the road.