After Hours. by Mike Gallagher

Back to front, an exit sign

Throws up a bleary haze;

Soft colours seep through silhouettes,

And shadows cross green baize.

Downlighters at the bar

Cast a velvet sheen 

On cheeks of flawless beauty

(Through the eyes of Bacchus seen).

The Flowers of the Forest

Drift from a corner dim;

Sweethearts whisper nothings

Pump adrenalin.

Tables are refurbished 

With ashtrays of smoked glass

And the whiff of Sweetest Afton

Brings memories of the past.

This is the time for misspent age,

For tipsy eloquence,

When adults play at being kids

In furtive disobedience.

Mike Gallagher has been anthologised in many barrooms ... hic ... magazines around the world ... hic.