THE NIGHT ECONOMY

He sprays cologne on yesterday's clean shirt.
Another three squirts. Another can't hurt.
Downstairs the punters are bustling in.
The lads are oiled. It'll be packed by ten.
He fingers fibre through his hair and rubs
the scruffy clumps to peaks and tufts. He scrubs
up well, he does. Turning out the hall light,
he fantasizes the fanny tonight.

2 p.m. The bottle bin's crash echoes
in the deserted yard. The last drunk goes
singing out the back gate. He sparks a fag.
Spits at the wall. She looked like a right slag.
A cool breeze stirs. One more shift in the bank.
He imagines her tits spilled beer and wanks.