Tony Quarrington

You were instantly friends with my wife

Nearly thirty years ago,

Since, sharing countless photographs –

She grasping a gin and tonic

And you, well, just sitting there.

You were not built for comfort,

The black sheep of the bar

Among the beer stained stools,

Wood backed benches,

Vintage Beat memorabilia

And framed newspaper cuttings.

Though card payments

Have largely usurped cash,

And berets been replaced

By Giants baseball caps,

You’ve not changed;

Apart from a much needed

Covid-era makeover

When the bar sat empty

And hands were otherwise idle.

Four years crawled past

During which we thought

We had seen the last of your

Faded, creaking glory;

But you were waiting

In the usual place,

Sturdier and cleaner than ever.

.

Few others seem to share

The fascination you hold for us

As they stride past in pursuit

Of more conventional

Rear end resting places.

But I wonder if Jack or Allen

Or more likely Lawrence,

From across the alley

Ever lounged in your

Elegant wicker straitjacket?

How many more times

We will have the chance

To enter that threshold

To find you there

Is not in my gift,

But you will always remain

At least a conversation piece.

If not a photo opportunity.

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