17:00 Friday



We shifted our jackets, left the swivel

chairs swiveling, and with one pat

on the back you drove us pubward.


The evening clicked its neck sideways

and gnaaaarghed an almost unpleasant

sigh of release – or was that you? – as we


soberly staggered out. About time, too,

the light was draining out, its limescale

residue pale at the base of its firmament,


an emptied receptacle. Work day done

you jawed about him and her, and all the

files you didn’t want to jaw on about


until we hit the door, thunk it open and

teeter in. Leaning a little too eagerly

you order a wide-eyed round, a cool


trayful of indifference-in-waiting:

and we drank deep from the cold,

foaming, rightful, thirsting pints of Done.



I was challenged to write something without a formal rhyme structure: and I think that a poem about clocking off for a quick post-work pint is suitable for that purpose. 


3 thoughts on “17:00 Friday

  1. Dear James, What a jolly poem. I can feel the release and thirsting. Bravo. I well remember the beauty of the suddenly light evenings of the Spring term after a 6-9 lecture shift. Then the swift escape. Much love from us both, James

    Sent from my iPad


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