I’ve always wanted to write about Nellies,
but I don’t think I ever can.
The place isn’t what it is now;
all that’s left of what it really is in the photograph of the
1962 piano smash.
It’s maybe in the pebble floors
and the antique novelty bean cans,
in their element in a light that surely
was turned on 60 years ago.
It could be with my friend Charlie behind the bar,
or the last chimney sweep in Britain sat in his corner,
and it is sort of with the double denim
cowboy hat wearing snooker player,
but really it’s only captivated in the black and white
photograph of triumphant men in white vests.
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