Husks

Husks

A gently-trembling hand

Across the beer-ringed table

Reaches to grasp the glass half-empty

And drain it to its meagre dregs

Before slowly rolling out a cigarette

With the last of this week’s tobacco

A delicate line of spittle traced along

To seal the thin white paper

Then tucking it behind the ear

For later consumption

On the way home

Through derelict streets

Deep-set wistful eyes

Survey the scene unchanging

Staring out through rheumy windows

Eking out the time of endless days

In this waiting-room of dejected men

Rejected and pensioned off into retirement

Who feel no ease or comfort

Nor expect any better prospects

Sitting wordless among the others

Staring across the musty bar-room

Where no-one talks today

Since there’s nothing much to say

Ground down by hopelessness

Arms rendered thin and scrawny

Through life-long labour

On shop-floors and in yards

Which sit now silent and abandoned

Worn out by years of heavy toil

Sinews stretched and lacking strength

Old muscles worn and wasted

Veins standing proud and blue

Upon the wrinkled, liver-spotted skin

Of these exhausted men

Insides hollowed out

Husks of what used to be

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014