You were instantly friends with my wife
Nearly thirty years ago,
Since, sharing countless photographs –
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And berets been replaced
By Giants baseball caps,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.
Tony Quarrington 