POEM TITLE
The Lobster Pot
POEM
"That’s them, is it no?" I say, nodding
towards the two guys leaning against the bar.
"That’s who?" you ask, taking another
slow sip from your dimpled jar.
"I’m surprised you need to ask," I say.
"Two of the greats: Burns and Stevenson,
or to you and me, Rabbie and Robert.
They’ve just walked in."
"Away with you!" you say.
"Wha’s in that you’re drinkin’?"
Then you laugh and shake your head.
You’ll need some more convincing.
"Did you no hear?" I say. "Burns
just said it’s better here, in Blackness."
"Better than where?" you ask.
"C'mon man! Better than Bo’ness."
"And?" you say. "What does that prove?
Those two didnae even live in the same century."
"Aye, but look, they’re carrying notebooks
and talking about poetry.
"And see, Stevenson’s wearing a coat
made from purple velvet."
"Get tae!" you say. "I bet the wee guy bought it
from some vintage shop on the Grassmarket."
"Well look at the length of that mustache!
Who wears one of them round here?"
"They’re probably up fae London,
they love a fancy tache down there."
"So why don’t we ask them," I say,
"and if I’m wrong I’ll buy the next round."
"Ask them! What would we say?
Excuse me, but did you write Treasure Island?"
"You can be a bit more subtle than that.
Just ask them how was their day,
and when they’ve answered, recite
a verse or two fae Scots Wha Hae."
"Right," you say, "I’m going to settle this!"
And off you stomp towards them.
The fire's flames dance through my wine
as I twiddle the glass by its stem.
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