Not a poem about poetry

We sat in the pub drinking and talking about football.
We didn’t think about, or try to bring "it" into the conversation.
We all felt pretty good about the absence of "it".
I doubt that any of us even had a pen to write on the soggy
coasters.
But we passed the afternoon away happily, some might say naively,
in that golden warm fuzz called drunkenness.
Suddenly, Macka yelled,
“How about your shout?”
Then Johnno said,
“Ya a poet and ya wouldn’t know it.”
The drinks were plonked on the bar and we continued to drink.
Nobody mentioned "it" again.