Another week gone by in the pub
means time called on someone else
as if the reaper’s too lazy to aim
higher than the fermented windfalls.
The regulars are sad but secretly glad
it’s not them in the pine overcoat
as they discuss at length how hard
it is to drive to that new crematorium.
They complain it’s just off the main road
but there’s no signage to say it’s coming.
One old soak asks if you can approach it
aslant, via the quiet old coach roads.
The answer comes back fast and firm –
No, there’s only one way in, one way out.
