Arm on the bar of the pub
 after
 the writer’s workshop

 I order the group’s drinks
 a girl at the bar slurs
 ‘What time is it?’

 A boy behind her, lit fag
 in hand, curves round
 the girl, slurs, ‘It’s our lass!’

 A sear of pain
 under my eye,
 he pulls the hot stub
 from the surface
 of my lower eyelid.

 I take the tray
 of drinks back
 to the group.

 “Why dint Tha lamp
 him one!” they ask

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