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.

BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

Morning is cracked like an egg: bust-yolk/
thick head. Coming up marmalade
spread over crisp brown toast and pancakes
drowning in honey. I am deaf
to alarms bleating time to get up and lost
on a wave of syrup thick booze.
This is my breakfast of champions
for winners. I raise the can like a trophy
and catch sun-rays in a gold-plated mouth.