Them’s The Breaks

 

Them’s The Breaks

 

 

All this hot weather turns milk sour,

the bottoming globs glower

while sallow whey rises to the top –

feels wrong, looks wrong, is wrong:

a sort of tie-dyed, jaundiced,

cheesecloth shock-mop to slop

out flushed specks that exit the carton

with dragging feet and harden.

Nothing doing for my coffee, then,

I lay down my almost eager pen

and slap in slippers the odd mile or so

into town. It’s early, coming seven,

half risen sun’s scrubbing out heavens –

I’m thinking ‘Spar’s convenient’,

or so they continually claim.

Coming down by the viaduct, endgame

within reach, I spot two by the door,

smoking, vaping, all the same –

studying my approach, detached.

I can see they’ve not lifted the latch

yet, watching with expectation.

I’ve already predicted explanations:

‘Sorry, dear, don’t open ‘til 7.30,’

all caretaker language, Ms Honey tones,

they even set aside their phones -

think manicured nails down blackboard,

Stradivarius mistuned, misbowed,

a warbling chorus of rough crows,

G-string’s bust, half simpered sympathy,

the rest pure smug-shot; I care not.

‘Them’s the breaks,’ I might’ve mumbled -

didn’t – changed direction, stumbled

a jot – like you do – made the Co-Op.

clutching the blessed pint in my fist,

I set back the way I came, deep breaths,

of course, it’s bloody open by now,

but I’m hoping what they blow they suck –

and - I suppose - glad it was only dear:

not bro, mate, buddy or chuck.