Poem - My Left Shoe

An old friend rang me up to say

come celebrate on Saturday,

we haven’t met since God knows when

we’ll round the old gang up again.

As usual he’d choose a

proper back street boozer

with sticky carpets, 60’s bogs,

where old guys sit with dozing dogs,

a no-frills pub for no-frills men

- a proper old school drinking den.

Not for us a poncey bar

with girlies sipping Pinot Noir,

or out with those whose afternoons

are one long hazy Wetherspoons

or shouting in some sweaty place

to endless booming Drum n Bass

with braying students thinking

they’ve just invented drinking.

So come the day the lads arrived,

amazed this grotty dump survived,

the mood nostalgic, light and merry,

the banter flowed like hen night perry.

Though largely past our youthful prime,

still having such a jolly time.

But later when I paid a call

whilst pointing percy at the wall

I heard an inauspicious slosh

and found the toilet floor awash.

A recent client, ham of fist,

had aimed perhaps but…largely missed.

Emerging from that fetid place

I still maintained a cheery face

but now I faced a dampened night

for one shoe wasn’t watertight.

This episode imbued

a slow decline in mood,

my ribaldry had ended,

a cloud of gloom descended.

This inattentive urination

now prompted wider rumination,

a taking stock of what I’ve got,

reflecting on my current lot –

questioning the paths I choose,

the friends I keep, my choice of shoes.

Boozing in a back street slum,

ponging like a wino bum,

however did I sink to this?

my sock is soaked in someone’s p**s.

I could not shrug or simply scoff

my foot too wet to laugh it off.

But now I might suggest that when

we get together once again

perhaps we could identify

somewhere nicer, somewhere dry.

Though poncey bars are not our scene

there must be something in between

with modern chic facilities

and freshly cleaned utilities -

a Local run efficiently

where punters point proficiently.

The sock, as soon as I got in,

was dropped into the outside bin,

then after gravely mulling through

the future of that bloody shoe

I judged its fate to be the same –

the shoe must shoulder all the blame.

I chucked it out and set to rights

my post traumatic sleepless nights.

But sympathisers shouldn’t fret -

my foot just got a little wet,

I paddled in a warmish tide.

Now it’s over. No-one died.

And now with time and quiet rest

I’m almost wholly convalesced.