A Little Wooden Wedge

A grubby little splinter beneath the shelf,
painted round twice,
varnished once,
ignored for years.

The new landlord spotted it on Tuesday.

“What’s this bloody thing?”

He pulled.

The shelf stayed put.
The landlord smiled.
Old George at the bar raised one eyebrow.

Then the whisky moved.

Barely a touch,
just a tip, just a tilt,
then gin struck rum
and the first one spilt.

Clink went the brandy,
crack went the rye,
vodka hit bourbon
and bottles learnt to fly.

Tequila toppled,
the schnapps shelf shook,
port poured past
every glass and hook.

Crash, smash,
a glittering rain,
whisky ran wild
down the bar like a drain.

Rum became rivers,
gin joined the flood,
three old men with pints
saved what they could.

One final bottle rolled along the shelf,
tipped from the edge
and disappeared down below

From the cellar
A thud.
A curse.
A boot struck wood.

Then, from somewhere beneath their feet—
could be heard a barrel roll.