They’ve finished the job.
But that sprayed-on render’s
a poor match for the original paintwork;
the hatch, where the barrels
tumbled each week into the cavernous dark,
inexpertly filled with aggregate;
and the old block-and-tackle,
that looked like something out of Bosch,
wrenched from the retaining wall six months ago
when the brewery stopped deliveries.
Hard to believe the world has ended so.
The lumber-room of a bar
is empty now, and smooth, and clean:
where we used to drink or sing or
fall asleep beneath the bike and the stuffed animals.
And I remember that New Year, five years ago:
the three of us - for some reason best forgotten
all dolled up in nightdresses – dancing,
and that curious collection
of battery-powered torches from the 70s
somebody had arranged as a table decoration,
or a shrine.