David McVey
Speakeasy
I memorised the instructions; wait until dark
turn right at the market cross, follow
a winding side-street and then at a door
opposite a sash-window with a light gleaming,
make the special knock.
Several times I had to hide in doorways
to avoid arrest for not practicing
‘Self-isolation’. I found the place
and knocked. I breathed the password
and the door was opened.
I did not know what to expect. Extreme
social contact, perhaps, license, libertinism.
Couples writhing amidst a miasma of alcohol
while talk roared and laughter filled a room
of hail-fellow-well-met heartiness.
Instead I found old friends meeting, grateful
for the precious gifts of talk and company.
Clubs and societies and churches had
arranged to gather, to catch up, to
re-forge the social currency of contact.
I ordered a coffee, and as I drank
I joined groups viewing immersive videos of
castles and country houses, parks and gardens,
mountains and moors, lochs and beaches.
Pleasures now forsworn and lost.
Time swept on and we left in ones and twos
to minimise the risk of arrest.
My turn came and I crept home. I heard
shouts and alarms and anger from my imprisoned
neighbours. They don’t know about the speakeasy.
David McVey‘s poems have appeared in The White Launch, Defenestration. His short stories and nonfiction have appeared in Crooked Holster, History Magazine, and other publications. McVey is a part-time lecturer in communications at New College Lanarkshire in Motherwell, Scotland. He lives in East Dunbartonshire.
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