Down at the
Old Bull and Bush
Class reunion. Bald or grey now
their cicada chatter fills the small
back room, quite sufficient in size
as their yearly roll call diminishes.
Nostalgia is given a full reign
with tales of classroom pranks
played on gullible teachers or
scragging rivals from other forms.
After the back years begin to wane
for some it becomes catch up time
to what’s happening in the present.
One let’s known he’s in middle management
for a major tobacco company on excellent pay
“So what’s it like to be a mass murderer?”
one gently inquires with an icicle tone.
Silence crept up the walls to the ceiling
While drinks were stared at with intensity
matching a scientists above a microscope.
Expletives kept a clenched fist company
before there was a muttering stalked exit.
Talk started again about the World Cup.
If you have any comments on this poem, Barry Southam would be
pleased to hear from you.