Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

South of the river and desperate for a drink
I find this road house between brick estates.
The bar is full. I open a side door
on a quiet room where curtains are drawn

but let grey light through rents and holes, enough
for me to see five men in jackets, no ties,
round a table in a stupor. The bar is free.
‘If you stay in here you best be quiet,’

the barmaid says ‘then they won’t notice you,
the boys.’ I drink, and suddenly
like mechanical chimes they jerk to life.
‘Let’s get shivved up,’ says one, and pulls his knife.

He stabs the air, stands up and makes new holes
in the curtains, expelling words like solids
from his muscled mouth. ‘Here’s to the don of dons,’
they cry and knife the air. One lays a doll

on the table top and says ‘Let’s get the bastard,’
stabbing its chest. The others do the same.
‘Cut off the arms and legs. Leave it with stumps.’
I start as they turn to stare, not at, but through me.

They don’t see anyone except themselves.
They say ‘We have no knowledge of this murder,
we were not involved, we did not kill…’
Then one stands up scanning an unseen crowd.

‘What’re you staring at? Come on. I’ll take you,’
and returns to the stupor I found when I came in.
The barmaid cleans the mess and fills their glasses.
I ask ‘How often does this happen?’

‘All afternoon, all evening, every day
since the killing,’ she says. ‘I hang new curtains
every day. I change the table cover
every week.’ ‘Who pays for it?’ I ask.

‘One of their fathers, known around these parts.’
‘Don’t you feel sorry for them?’ I say.
‘To tell the truth,’ she says, ‘I wish them dead.’
They wake, and stab the air again, and curse.