STREET FOOLISH

Newly retired
from respectable Headmasterliness
generally considered urbane
and passing smart though my
hair’s way below my collar.
Civilised and ready for the evening, it seems,
dressed in winter black and silver grey
I share a casual drink or two
and a concurred celebration of Rock’n’Roll
with a [so he thinks] Mr Hard Man
a new acquaintance, randomly met,
waiting for the ladies, his and mine.
He curses their tardiness
too loudly and too strong.
Mildly I request moderation
to avoid offending
The rather posh clientele
of this rather swish and precious hotel.
“Not in front of ladies,”
I tightly smile.

The ladies join us
To be greeted with
“where the f**k have you c**ts been?”
Enough!
I don’t warn twice -
I stopped his foul and foolish mouth
with a made-in-Manchester kiss.

I’m barred from the bar,
scorned by my disgusted lady
and end the evening
in the bar across the road
unrepentant and in the company of
a man with cotton-wool nostrils
and freshly-cleaned conversation.
We conclude, he and I,
that though you can take a man
from the fiery feisty streets
you can never truly take
those mean streets from
the man.

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A 'Manchester Kiss' is a head-butt. I'm not proud of this - but I'm not sorry either.