Bar Food

It's a sign, he says,
no room at the inn
for a snack, Jack.

My whistle's a whetstone,
it wants a sharp
blow to the throat:
not the flat flap of sandwich.

There's snap enough
in the dark elastic
of seventeen pints.

Wrap up the crackles,
the solids. I'll drink anything
bar food.

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday