At the Pineapple

A warm Kentish Town Wednesday.
Undertakers Drinking outside.
In shirtsleeves and open collars.
Having a pint after a long day.
La Vie en rose by Grace Jones is playing.
Breadsticks on a white tablecloth.
One of the men in black, takes a bite.
Now I realise it’s the wakes end.
Crumbs fleck the conservatory tables.
Mourners have consumed all the food.
Ready to go they pack their smart clothes.
Before the new crowd arrive.
My Jamaican Guy serenades an empty table.
Quickly taken by a teenage broncin buck.
Peace breaks when a troop 
of workmen arrive.
In Jackson Pollock paint
-flecked sweats.
Incongruously they sit next 
to two old gentlemen.
Renegades from a distant age.
Who swiftly manoeuvre to a quieter spot.
Later we go too, as day drinking drifts into night.

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