They’re Getting Angry At The Wrong Things

That corner of the pub
You always avoided,

The one where anger
Bubbled like the froth

On the pink faced workers pints
As they traded bile at lunch.

The place where the furniture
Sat at right angles,

Dirty pots piling high
As the volume increased,

All snuggled in filth
And crude banter.

It’s an antiques shop now,
Stuffed animals and trinkets

Sit where they sat,

Boxed fossils and clocks,
Dusty maps and pith helmets,

War medals and jackets,
Ornate mirrors slightly warped,

It’s a captivating place
But the carpet’s still stained.

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