the union jack flaps in the sunday breeze,
it's threadbare and almost transparent.
next door, the roof is lower than the rest
and 'this building has 24 hour CCTV'.
it's a private club - members only,
and the members are smokers.
fag ends float in brown foam,
preferring the drain to the ashtray.
it houses the three-fold joy of quiz, bingo
and races on thursday nights.
it's here you'll find the disco,
and live sport on the big screen.
an escapee blinks his way out
wearing a t-shirt: 'if found, return to bar'.
he asks 'what're you doing, love?'
and i chance a truthful answer.
'there's nowt creative to be found
in there', he snorts,
as he steps inside the house next door.
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