Tiles

These are the streets of the centre
of Bath on a Saturday night. Man, you’ve
got to relax, says a bearded youth – he's
probably on drugs, but by God he's right. ‘I'd
spit on your grave,’ shouts a girl in high-heels
on a hands-free phone. A police van's
parked on the corner of George Street. A doorway
thumps with bass and drum, it hums with scent. I'm
very polite to the men-in-black. There
are polychromatic Victorian
floor-tiles under this bar-stool – which
remind me of school. And I should own
a house on a new-build estate. I should
have a wife, or, at least, an ex. And the
more of this vintage cider I drink, the
more I see the scuffs of a prefect's boot;
a loss of my blood in 'Seventy-Eight.

Ian Collier-Webb



If you have any comments on this poem, Ian Collier-Webb  would be pleased to hear from you.