from The Regulars

i.
His fist is as soft as a block
of butter, shaking
around two pound coins
and a twenty pence piece,
to be exchanged
for the first pint of the day.

Under the tap it pours
itself, clouds, settles
thick and brown with
a white halo the width
of forefinger and thumb.

His skin is the jaundiced shade
of pages in antique books,
and the ink of a decades-old tattoo
is blurred beyond comprehension

not that it matters
...