His Birthday

East Lane selling tat,
pie and mash swimming
with eel liquor,
Bermondsey bustling.
And to the pub
for bitter and Guiness,
glass following glass
fueling seething chatter.
It’s his eightieth
and I am forty
and he throws out love
then snatches it back.
My brother-in-law, he says,
has a proper job
has done well for himself
and for Ali and the kids.
Why don’t I grow up,
put in a good days work.
He doesn’t know
that Rob’s fucking another.
Then the final cut.
One short sentence.
She was too good for you,

I stand tall
with half a lifetimes rage
and I smash my glass
into his face.
For just a moment
I’m astride the globe.
A man, free at last
from him.
But I catch myself.
I slowly stand up
and I say
another pint then?