Farewell to Canavan's.
In memory of Canavan’s, Peckham.
A slither of a heavy-red door between tiled walls,
excitement dawns, across sticky MDF floors and ID checks,
four by two, old bwoy locals too, students, jailbait shoes,
sat in plentiful groups, tiptoeing cute, with a couple couples.
Beer by the bottle, we’d stock up, before breaking,
handling cues over unkempt green like misbehaving turf,
clanging lights while on rolls reserved for semi-pros,
sinking scratched balls, nimbly into pockets with a slack thud,
damp in the air, like laughter, a synthesizer, or love growing.