I remember how you used to sit

in the bleak light nursing a beer

in that pub off Oxford St

with the barflies lined up behind you.
You would sit there all afternoon

and into the twilight

sometimes telling a story

or showing off your extra knowledge

just enough to put a demarcation line

between you and the others

they tolerated you but they knew

you were taking the mickey
sometimes I’d ring and you’d come to the phone

with your drunken chatter

your soft drawl of words

I wondered how long you would stay there

before your body gave out

and they came in their white coats

carrying a stretcher

St Vinnies was just down the road
still there was a happy ending of sorts

you moved away and gave up the grog

but what did you leave behind?
Only a ghost pinned in a shaft of light

sitting in that bar off Oxford St

talking to itself

in a sibilant knowing whisper.