The man in the high-vis jacket
So certain he can hack it,
Proudly swallows the last of his beer
And up from his chair awkwardly steers.
Towards the bar with a rolling motion
Like a tanker out on the rough ocean,
He slowly steers a careful course
As if guided by a radar source.
Until directed by the north star
He docks himself at the bar
Going to the pub is a rewarding past time for a poet, I mean not only is there beer but there is also the general public with their oh so many tics and quirks that keeps a poet like me in material.
I wrote this poem some time ago but had forgotten all about it till I bumped into the subject the other day, like all my people poetry it’s how I imagine someone is from my observations.