The Little House Closed - Again

Its over: the weeping has left rivulets of wine
to meander over the bar room night
anguished marks on the music soaked linoleum
a minor diaspora removed with vengeance.
Friends both old and new, firm or slight
woman or man, cast out in the cold
this city of the sea
“Time Please” called a last time.

“We play our guitars by Aigburth dip
in a couple of moments we’re not there
every port we’ve been to, every trip,
Yokahama, Pernambuco
coming home past Finistaire
Tommy Curran my great pal
with all your horizons shared at last
by countless hours,by stars,by glass
singing in our Little House
with John and Frank and Tommy Ware”

No more we don’t
the ghostly gnashing of ill fitting dentures
over the land, the winter wind blows
through empty vaults.Our well loved aging
barmaids,our weary, nearly vestal virgins
cast all ways like burnt toast.
Smoke from a million woodbines and pipes
have coarsened their voices
their bulging arm muscles atrophy
each pumpless day and optic starved night
and reminds them when hands pulled pints
and coursed Guinness into nearly clean glasses
at the behests of ill mannered mustards
who raged behind the worn mahogany
at the ruin of their rights.

By Bill Curran