Cobalt Issue 26 - Twisted Nostalgia

They sank in the silence
suspended between them.
It picked and clawed and pestered
the scars
Infested with ghosts that had
festered, encroached,
Like how mustard gas smothers,
polluting the stars.
The Irishman saw the other men
disturbed.
He urged to speak up and say
something, a word
Of assurance, perhaps, that would
not go unheard.
Instead, what he told them was a
joke.
The joke was a mess, unbelievably
dull, and slid off his tongue with
the grace and the charm
Of the guy on his own just a couple
booths down, with rum on his face
and his sick down his arm.
It was old, lame, unoriginal too. It
was a joke they'd heard before.
But maybe that's why they
laughed.
Maybe that's why the Scotsman
could find the strength for a wry
sort of smile.
And maybe that's why the
Welshman could scoff at the joke
so void of wit or style,
Or why the Englishman could look
his friend in the eye; he'd not done
that for a while.
Maybe the joke didn't need to be
one his audience would adore.
Perhaps it was enough for it to be
known, familiar, one that they'd
heard before.
His delivery skewed on a joke
which was doomed to lie down
and bitterly die.