July 7th, 2020

July 7, 2020

Pubs have grown strange. No longer are you able
To jostle at the bar, but are directed
Towards a lonely disinfected table
Where gloved hands bring the drinks that you’ve selected.
The bar staff gamely take to new-learned tasks
Some bossily, but others with more tact.
It’s disconcerting seeing them wear masks;
You’d be put off, except for one sweet fact…

There is no music! The loud thumping rock
That’s been the soundtrack to our evenings out
Has been switched off, because high-decibel schlock
Makes drinkers shout, and so spread germs about.
No racket now will murder conversations –
Even this virus has its compensations.

2 Responses to “July 7th, 2020”

  1. Clive Donovan Says:

    Well said, George!…and I love the word ‘disinfected’ in a poem..never seen it before…

  2. Monty Says:

    What a quality piece this is. Well-written; on point; droll; metrically-flowing; immaculately-rhymed; and leading effortlessly to a logical conclusion.
    Applause.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: