NaPoWriMo day 17 Poem 12 Philosophy At Weatherspoons

Weatherspoons on a Monday morning is like a retirement home,

people drink for hours, sitting at the bar,
no one takes off their jacket,

they won’t admit how comfortable they are

where the air is anxious with the smell of cigarettes and clammy microwave heat

I walked past men at the fruit machines and sat at a table behind an old man in a black flat cap, gold rings on four fingers, his dark skin shiny, his face, aged, I guessed he’s Caribbean, in his fifties, he had the hands of mechanics, hands I imagined in a factory or a side` street garage. 

He asked if I was going to the bar, I said I was, he said order me a double whisky then he leaned in and whispered fill the glass with lemonade its 10am and I don't want people to think I got problems.

when I came back with his drink, he spoke about his life, I sat and listened

 he said

I'm too honest sometimes, it's hard to be honest in the same country you do your taxes. I really want to go to Russia, I understand Russian, it’s easy, all you got to do is stand in the snow with a bottle of Vodka. I'd drink until I feel the things I'd rather feel, you can only numb yourself for so long... I'm only joking about wanting to go to Russia, what the hell would a black man do in Russia? I'd find no bit of music about me there. Then again I could've said the same about England when I was young. Home is complicated now because I know too many places that it might be and not all of them exist. They call me "salt penis" because I have one foot on one island and the other foot on another while my penis dangles in the ocean. If the sun is a therapist then the one in England is shit.  I’m broke, I left my wife years ago, it’s hard to love someone when you know them too well, but my heart knows that failure is the worst thing that could happen to it and I have not failed and that’s the only reason I’m still alive, drinking lemonade on a day and a place like this.