Husks

Husks

A gently-trembling hand

Reaches across the beer-ringed table

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 thread of spittle traced along a line

To seal gossamer-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 an eternity of endless days

A waiting-room of dejected men

Rejected and pensioned 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 building-yards

Which sit now silent and abandoned

Worn thin by years of heavy toil

Sinew-stretched and weakened

Old muscles worn and wasted

Proud-standing veins show blue

Upon the wrinkled, liver-spotted skin

Of these exhausted men

Insides hollowed out

Husks of what used to be

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016