The audience is very sparse tonight
thirty-odd at best, evenly spaced by choice
barring a few couples mostly widowed.
As an incomer, I sit behind
and count the turnout of tight grey heads,
locals, none under seventy.
Although the surroundings are familiar
none take off their coats, as if making ready
for a swift exit.
They ‘otch’ uncomfortably, all chewing toffees
between the cheeks of their arses
on the unforgiving metal chairs.
Warily, they are curious about
who is sitting behind, who risked coming in late
and now has the advantage of
scanning the room, but no-one looks around
for fear of having to greet one another
before tea is served, following
‘any other business’.
*
© Graham Sherwood 08/2019
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 