Intervals

by Shane Strachan

Doon in The Commercial Inn
the Geordie at the end o the bar
graisps his Guinness as he girns,
In Arbroath, there’s loadsa taxis
sittin empty because nobody wants
ta drive them, but since I’m sixty-five
with a pre-existin heart problem, I’ve
got ta get a doctah’s certificate!
He repeats this fower times ower
tae the ither mannies roon the bar
until the fisherman says, Aye,
I’m the same wi tikkin oot the boat,
then he jokes, But I’d raither dae the ML5
than bather ma pals in the RNLI.

     Ye picter the taxi driver riggit tae the ECG –
     the doctor heichins the treadmill speed
     and the needle hyters alang the graph
     drawin the rhythm o his heart,
     the impty intervals
     atween the peaks
     shortenin
     wi every
     beat.

Bit for noo he’s seated on the barstool
pressin the Guinness glaiss tae his lips –
a final cauld kiss, afore he lowps doon
aff the stool tae stairt his taxi shift.

The ither mannies shak their heids as he leaves.

The fisherman hauds up his Daily Record.
Hiv ye seen this in the pippers?
That junkie lass and the security guard?
He wis ma nibbor! Ex-Marine.
Deid at sixty-one. Shockin, eh?
Imagine them phonin yer faimly
tae say, ‘He got attacked then
hid a heart attack.’

First rendeetion I heird,
she hit him wi a bottle.

Nah – she wis up to no good
in the drink aisle. He
intervened. She
pushed him
ooer.

There’s too much o that stuff
in the toon. Folk say it’s no
the hard stuff – get a grip!
Aw o it’s bad. Junkies!
‘Ye canna say that no more.’
Piss off… Junkie bastards!

The fisherman piynts tae
the impty pint glaiss –

Taxi Tim’s daughter
gave him CPR for
twenty minutes.

     Ye picter the ASDA oot on the edge
     o the toon wi the security guard
     lyin on the hard fleer, the spirit
     bottles aroon him glistenin –
     aa she must be thinkin is,
     What if this was my da?
     as she places a hand
     doon on his chest
     and feels for a
     thrum that
     jist winna
     come.