this old pub
on a Sunday morning

both i and the timbers
soaked in stale beer
from the night before

my mouth is like sawdust
my head thumps
as the cricket bat
thwacks the ball
on sports TV
massive screen
too loud for me

the old guys in the corner
squint up at it
between backgammon moves
at their table
as they crunch
through their crisps
and pork scratching

my eyes droop
and I’m drifting
through galaxies

the stars turn
and spin me
into older stories

the challenge and change
of the days of old glories
are lost in a haze
stamped out
by lethargy
and drooping inaction
as we watch the big screens
that swallowed us all