Hapless at weekends, yet still with that
contrived joy; in the beer gardens and car
parks, where perfume and aftershave still
smell fresh against fake fur and denim.
The hiss of music from the outside speakers,
that threaten to fall, but never damage conversation.
The bottles strewn across badly mounted tables
and tree torn, cracked pavements.
The warmth of this room blocks out winter, yet
its shell remains fragile, like rusted gates that
no longer retain the strength to block out the
weakest of imposters.
And again we glide without protest, our voices
placed only where needed, our feet as nimble
as ever; tripping over curbs now an art form,
that at last we have finally mastered.
Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had poetry appear in various print and online journals including Ink, Sweat and Tears, Elbow Room, Your One Phone Call, Mad Swirl, The Transnational and others. His second chapbook ‘Broken Slates’ was published by Flutter Press.