There were few poets

There were few poets

In the public bar

Of the workman’s club

On a Friday

After the back shift

When pitmen piled in

There was money to be spent

On Fed special

Over a few hands

Of three card brag

Working men with dirty faces

All of their cards were dealt

Before the cage doors closed

No more coal to cut

Until first thing in the morning

When the early shift staggered

Down to the top shaft

Still stinking of the night before

Some barely set foot in their own back door

Before they were turfed out again

What was left in the pay-packet

Thrown on the kitchen table

As dinner came out of the oven

Spoiled from too long waiting

Tossed against the woodchip

In frustration

Too dry to stick

A woman too sick to cry

Eeking out the housekeeping

From less than half a score

She has changed the locks before

But he comes home and breaks them

She went to church on Sunday

Prayed for better days

The children wore their best clothes

To keep up with appearances

As did all their neighbours

One day somebody would break the chain

Burn down the club

Never let it open again

Sign the pledge instead

They could write a poem about it

As if they all lived in wartime

Instead of in the dark ages

When working people were

Still indebted

To their masters

On the Coal Board

Grateful for the chance

To live in grace and favour

Thanking Christ their saviour

For the bounty

On their tables

As the cards fell

For someone else

But not for those who turned them

There were no poets

In the public bar, no women either

An oddity, akin

To an old gentleman’s club

In Curzon Street,

With strict etiquette

To be observed as

So many liberal men are sticklers

For convention,

Where there might yet be an old poet

Wallowing in privilege

Bleeding hearts bleating

Over canasta and single malt

With a brandy after dinner

As tightly laced

Pinch-faced wives sit waiting

In the drawing-room

Of a Georgian home

Designed by William Morris,

Wishing they were spinsters.