Sabbuteo in a Blackpool hotel

had its down side in the killing of time

each goal choking off the play

more money required.

 

Like a peaceful protest a duo of trumpet and piano

we spilled out into the lounge,

 behind lace and sheet glass

the west was won by the sea and rain.

 

We mopped up boredom

the carpet followed us skirted and hoovered

right up to a stage.

Along a tunnel of time lay the gig.

 

We destroyed a half hour waiting for

brown windsor soup and an indiscriminate

main.

Time pressed closer;  a drummer keen to practise

arrived early already aftershaved and magnificent.

A wild west bar made up the scene.

 

Somewhere out there a herd of licensed victuallers

was gathering pace at the end of the time tunnel.

The kitchens were braced and plotting.

A toastmaster would be checking the long mirror

all would be well.