After Hours, Lviv

By Matthew Parish

Friday 6 November 2026

I stumbled through a door I took for shut

In Lviv, an hour past any legal beer.

The bar was full of huge fat women, one

Of whom drew in her chair to let me near.

Ukrainian fiddles sawed one folk tune through

And took it from the top. “Cash only, dear.”

I paid. It struck me, halfway down my glass,

How many hours it was since I had peed.

The steps went steeply down. Two women passed

Ahead of me, both huge, with greater speed

Than I could manage. At the only loo

The bolt slid home. A sound precise and final.

Outside there was a sink, and in the sink

I took the sort of liberty one takes

Supposing bricks and pipes to be alone.

Above the towel, a little camera shone.

I washed my hands. Up those infernal stairs

The fiddlers played as if on piecework rates.

The stocky Ukrainian who’d drawn my beer,

A barman half my age, stood in my way.

“You’ll have to leave.” “Yes, certainly,” I said.

He waited for the rest of what I’d say.

I’d said it. Through the floor the same tune rose.

He took my glass and looked at it instead.

“There’s some left. Here, I’ll pour it in a cup,

A plastic one. You can drink it in the street.”

“No, thank you. I can see it’s time for bed.”

Again that look. He’d braced himself to meet

Some louder man than this. He held the cup

A moment, then put it back upon the stack.