Cigarette butts lay wasted on the ground,
Burnt up,
Like an old man coming home at the end of the day with a frown,

His retirement funds aren't really up to scratch,
So he has to keep working,
Working to feed the alcoholic addiction that eases the pain in his back,

The yard work is well overdue,
For his brittle home,
Through a white paint chipped windowsill view,
Like a graveyard tombstone,  

He vaguely remembers the days under the summer time sun,
But enjoyed the colder winters,
Watching snow fall,
Exhaling smoke from his lungs,
Climbing the fence getting wood chipped splinters,

He's in the shopping centre looking for the simple milk, baked beans and bread,
Everyone's moving past him at such fast pace, with shoulders bumping into him
And no one turns a head,
To say sorry or to explain why the fast race,

He walks along a path in his home town,
Picking up things from his past,
His memory is in pieces like broken bottles that lay wasted on the ground,
Treading over broken glass,

I don't know where to end this poem,
I guess you can say he spent the rest of his days on his porch watching the cars go past,
Smoking cheap cigars,
And taking sips of scotch from his father’s silver embroidered flask.