Alone in a pub again.
Looking for friends again.
Not friends he has: the friends he needs.
No one sees him.
Not even a glance.
Is he invisible?
I can see him.
I can see his loneliness intensify in tandem with their fun.
He drinks his way to stupidity.
It numbs the embarrassment.
Pint after pint feeds familiarity.
This is how the pub bore is born -
Whose drunken courage is inflicted on the innocent.
"What? No mates?" - is the accusation, sarcastically delivered.
It stings.
Is it a sin to be alone?
His short-lived courage deflates, visibly,
As he skulks off to a corner
To be comforted by his liquid friend and the TV.
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