Friday Night Poem by John Rickell

Friday night, the town is quiet
pretty girls with ivory thighs
precarious on their heels,
tread their way to 'Whispers'
in pairs they go by laughing
passed the emptying pub its drunken
boys who, encouraged by the lager
slowly leave in twos and threes,
shout at the girls; jousting knights
banners high and bright.
Soon the street is dead, to remain
until early Sat’day morning
when all will stagger home,
stopping for a random joy
in the darkened lanes.
Each night the same
it was ever so, each generation
lives a rage, a rage to live
to talk in years to come of
watching pretty girls go by.