Husks

Husks

A faintly-trembling hand

Reaches out across the beer-stained table

To grasp the glass half-empty

And drain it to its dregs

Before slowly rolling a cigarette

With the last of this week’s tobacco

Licking a delicate line of spittle

To seal the thin white paper

Tucking it behind the ear

For later consumption

On the way home

Through deserted streets 

Deep-set wistful eyes

Survey the scene unchanging

Stare out through grimy windows

Enduring day after pointless day

In a waiting-room of rejected men

Pensioned off into retirement

That holds no ease or comfort

Nor any better prospects 

Sitting with the others

Staring across the bar-room

Where no-one’s talking today

Since there’s nothing much to say

Exhausted by each day’s striving

Arms rendered thin and scrawny

Through their life-long labour

On the shop-floors and in the yards

Which now sit quiet and deserted

Worn-out by heavy work

Sinews lacking strength

Old muscles wasted

Veins standing proud and blue

Upon the wrinkled skin

Of these tired men

Hollowed out inside

Shells of what used to be

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012