When I walked ashore in Amsterdam, with my
leather suitcase, no less, bought in a shop in
Hanover street, Liverpool, it was raining; fine,
persistent, precipitation, (isn’t that a nice word,)
the sort that dampens even the high spirited, at
a party, and makes him go to sleep in a corner.

I had been cook on a ship that was perpetually
sailing under a rain cloud; docked at every port
in Europe, even in Stockholm where they sell
the world’s worst beer, it’s not even cold: Do
not for a minute think you’re going to enjoy
yourself while drinking an alcoholic beverage

Tired and wet I booked into a BB hotel, found
a quiet bar drank cold beer and saw rain stop.
When I followed the barmaid home, but not in,
streets where dry and I enjoyed my solitude.

by jan oskar hansen

Other poems of HANSEN (231)

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