Tonight's Something

Whatever you say about the place - the stoned Australian staff, thirty minutes over each burger; the Primary School dirty wooden floor; as gaudy as an Estate Agent, the bright blue sofa; two suited and booted boys cheering - with barely-secret love - the goal-scorer Drogba; the empty rows of wipe-clean seats; dotting this and that table average bottles of over-priced wine - one old poem at least wasn't true:

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home

Wasn't true tonight, here. Here admist a passing, grand dream of European football. Admidst the neutral air of some random London bar. Where after the whistle blows, everyone just wanders off, bored. Whilst, there - an eternal poem. Or at least another little hyperlink.

(Me, not pretending this time means otherwise. Not < insert poem here >, nor anything.)