Farouche outline,
melting into the stool.
Slippery palms, flavoured beef and onion,
now it's 5 o'clock.

Hands turn.

Willing a pint to be half full, not half empty.
Slumped since 1978, timeless as the wallpaper.

Hands turn.

Mustard teeth to compliment his tongue.
Paralysed from his lifting elbow down.

Hands turn.

Jutting cigarette from blubber lips, burnt out.
Spitting in the ******, ritual, it's good luck.

Hands turn.

Lucky he's got time then,
Read behind bloodshot eyes.  
Ice in the cider, it'll last longer than him.

Hands turn.

An echo, I think it's a bell.  
You're out, he knows.

Hands turn.

Cold bites at the door, he huddles out.
A lighter lost, a bottle-top gained.
The wind taunts the black velvet sheet of white pin ******.

Hands stop.

JWS