Obstructed Inn Poem by Arthur H Rowley

I know this place, as do you,
sticky surfaces
pulled pints and pushed pennies

the barman is a familiar face, auburn hair pulled back,
'a drink' I ask of him 'make it strong but look like coke'
I know the law of this land
hours of my life have been left to rest here
employment turned embarrassment
'it's a nice pub if you don't work here' he tells me 'we've always said that'
he's right, of course

he knows I am a poet, offers me paper and a pen
tells me I am no more obtrusive than his locals
at least I'm quiet and well behaved
'I'm okay here? ' I ask, pulling a stool up to the bar 'what should I write of? Your choice.'
'the pub. British culture in a poem'
so I write meaningless, dried streams of empty consciousness
I feel more obtrusive with each passing moment

the men here are broad and aching
they crowd me reaching for service
for Carling or Stella or company
perhaps for them I am obtrusive
a rare bird sat at a bar writing poetry alone
less Bukowski, more bitch

that's what this boils down to though
my craving to understand the world I was born into
a community beneath the breadline
less teeth than years spent in school

I am the cuckoo, born into a foreign nest
I am unfamiliar
I am obstructive
here a jukebox plays as I too quickly drink my liqueur masquerading as coke
and the men stare
and I write
as though I were Bukowski.