buying a beer at the bleeding
horse tavern, just round the corner
from a bedsit I lived in five
years ago—south circular road.
mushroom damp. swimming pool,
torn tile-grout damp. and almost
a bunker inside a back garden
and six steps below the front
door. wondering if the barman
remembers me coming by
smelling of mildew
and looking for somewhere
more dry to spend my evening
getting wet as an otter.
not getting a nod and considering
asking for hot whiskey to wind
up his memory because that's
what I drank all the time then when
I was cold in the marrow of bones.