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.