12 Pubs of Christmas
Last days celebratory mood,
outlining a liquid station of the cross,
dressed in Cratchitt clothes before
the Scrooge and Marley Christmas
bonus checks: torn painter’s pants,
in-the-rough work shirts, disposable
everything for the long crawl home.
Some have a six hour time limit,
others four, staggered stats, stumbling
finish.
One team is on a short beer ration
with baby Jamie sides, others tall
stouts with depth charge sweeteners
inside; white lines and roll your owns,
in the gents or on the road, between
stops; half way to stretcher service
and wheelchairs.
Three quarters of the way to destination’s
end, their faces are a whiter shade of pale,
look like death camp tourists one stop from
the flame; their designated driver has
a hearse.
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