Across the aisle she spreads denim-clad legs.
Our cocker spaniel stirs, sits up and begs.
Then runs for solace in the dying dregs.
Of amber nectar, poison-pushing kegs.
Bad lucker.

Ahead of me the ad exec it seems
Is spouting shit and self-enriching dreams
Young acolyte nods sagely, talk of teams
Old cynic seeks rejuvenating creams.
Fad sucker.

I’m in a tunnel underneath the sea.
No line breaks now, no forks to set me free.
Just rude reflection staring back at me.
A sandwich, pen, paper and beer are thee.
Sad fucker.