The Man with the Watch Chain

The Man with the Watch Chain

He came each week on Thursday nights

With boots too clean and shirts too white

A silver chain across his chest

No coat, no bag, no sign of rest

He never spoke, just tipped his hat

And always chose the same old seat

A seat beneath the ticking clock

Where no one sat, where time was locked

We’d whisper tales behind his back

A ghost, a spook, a walking crack

In time itself, that watch chain shone

Too bright, like moonlight not quite gone

One night I stayed, just past the close

Pretending I had lost my purse,

He didn’t move, just stared ahead

As if he’d seen the newly dead

The pub grew cold, he turned his head

“You’re not the usual,” he said

I told him no, they’d all gone home

And asked if he was there alone

He smiled, “Not quite, not yet, not now”

He reached to wipe his clammy brow

The chain began to fade from view,

As if it knew just what I knew

He said, “You’ll see me once again

When Wigan wins by twelve, not ten”

I blinked, confused, he tipped his hat

Then vanished, just like that.

The bar clock stalled, my drink was warm

Outside, a shift had changed the storm

And every time, since that 12 score

He takes his place, just like before.

A Wigan supporter for sure is he,

A Ghost who likes to talk to me.