Runcible Spoon

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Tanked-up and black with grudges

clouds are milling, hooligans outside a pub.

First the fighting talk, now fists are flying;

soft at first, as if they’re only joking

but soon enough the body blows

are pummelling the ground – and me.

Punch-drunk and staggering

I stumble on, lead-limbed

till they get bored and slouch away

to find some other fool to pick on.

The weary sun returns

and with its sympathetic shine

points out the silver linings

dumped along the road.