He’s leant over the urinal, drunk, his head against the wall,

dick hanging out between his hands,

wet stain on his trousers. And he moans when

you enter, eyes rolling back, zombified!

‘You alright boy eh? You okay now son?’ he slurs.

You nod and smile, look away, choose the furthest cubicle.

You hear his dirty old wheeze, his movements slow and shuffling.

You come out, wash your hands, use the dryer.

His eyes are shut as he hangs onto his swaying world.

You tell your mates ‘There’s some pissed-up guy in the bogs’

and you all see him stagger out. But as you laugh

you can’t help feel a slight wave of jealousy hit you:

you could be like that in a matter of hours. He

just beat you to it.