The Scolds
 
when lights go out
in flats above the bar
the scolds emerge  
in aprons and frowns  
 
their rumps are hefty they grunt
as they crouch to sweep up
the words and phrases that
customers spilt in the snug
 
double entendres & Freudian  
slips make them snigger  
they snatch up dialect  
spit on anything foreign        
 
missspells make them cough  
3 am on the dot their finds  
arranged they read them  
aloud         all         at once  
 
this is Babel-Time
so very many words  
that no one  
ever listens  to

John Kitchen
 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, John Kitchen would be pleased to hear them.