A warm afternoon in an underground club in Manchester
A loose suited cool linen swagger
eclipses the burden of daylight
adjusting down well-trodden steps,
nicotine fingernails trail on billboard walls
to an ugly door that opens with a mumble.
The bar stools gesture through half closed eyes
lifted from beer mat stares,
closing again with a head back sip.
Hips sway through pungent clouds,
reverb touches seersucker on stilettos,
heavy handed from a dub step base.
He falls familiar to a corner seat and places his mind
behind the aroma of a Black Russian, with a sip
he slips, into the underground again.