Dinner by Tom Sastry

I am not a silent poet

Maybe it was just drinking. We met at the pub
because it saves deciding what to do. You said
you were getting angry again about
war, poverty, ATOS, sexual violence,
and I said maybe we could order cheesy chips
and skip dinner. Maybe it was just drinking –
we had another because it was your round
and you’ve been struggling to hold your hand up
and now you can and you need to
have your shout. I said that anger in politics
frightens me, the way it takes the route
of least resistance, like a river, and smashes through
people who are safe to tell to their face
that they are the problem. Maybe it was just drinking.
You said alternative, alternative,
then chips came and we ate them. I went for a piss
and to the bar and said the alternative
wasn’t what we wanted it to be. There…

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