The Unicorn Pub
A black boy, a soul track, and a Motorola taking notes in the Unicorn Pub.
I meander to town,
my cockerel bursting,
so I opt for a black boy
in the Unicorn Pub.
I know it well.
The Grimmy brothers,
barrow boys
had a stall adjacent.
I shoot to the toilet
and quickly return
to the bright red
padded leather seat.
It’s cramped in here.
In the room to my right,
a construction worker slots
his hard-earned dough
into the fruit machine.
I hear a whole load
of bellowing outside.
A short black male
is overtowered by a white male,
six-foot-four, all in black,
imposing,
looking down on him.
“I hope they’re not fucking coming in here,”
one of the customers said.
The Black man does.
“All I wanted was to use a toilet.”
He’s desperate to empty his cockerel.
“Where’s the toilet?”
Mature bleached-blonde barmaid
looks him up and down,
and with her hand,
dismissively gestures to her left.
The room drops its noise.
All the elderly white men
are muttering like whinnies.
I’m the only black in the gaff.
Minding my own business,
I look down into my black boy,
Guinness,
as they call it in Senegambia.
Damn.
Is that another
Drosophila melanogaster
diving for the froth?
Drawn to worn carpets
and sticky wood,
they love these
aging Manchester pubs.
I slap it away
as the Joyce Sims track,
“Come Into My Life,”
revives old memories.
I take out my Motorola
and begin to tap notes.
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