Working
in a garage
They
had had a hard coming of it, naturally
ripening
amongst the unlovely statistics so
that
one by one they entered bearing
a
bar, a gun, a warm tongue
They
came straight in, talking about it
ever
since they could talk perhaps so that
it
was practised by now and ever since they
could
hold on to it and not profit
from
any other way. Or not enough
so
that when it becomes my turn
they
loped in looking wrong.
The
sound of the shop door, the metal stretch
of a
backed-up hinge too far too quick.
A
bar, a gun, a man's tongue.
A
queue. A fan of heads. At the counter
The
bar held out. Pointing
at
me, at the till. At me,
'The
cash', he said, 'now.'
James
Bullion. March 2011 Draft 4
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