Another poem from another city.

The Golden Fleece

Drinking coke in the oldest and most haunted pub in the city
we sweat in the heat of over-compensation and await the chill

which does not come. And even when the quiet fades to quieter
whilst we sip through lime and ice, other people's attempts at fright

are not enough for fear. It is all far enough away
that we do not plan a return for psychic evenings and ouija boards,

though the myths and scratched black illustrations on the walls
resemble stories we have told in the dark.