The Morning Wind Across Empty Milk Bottle Tops

His best suit has become far too familiar
to be still wearing that title.
The stench of last evening’s Old Spice,
hops and barley and stale tobacco
comforts gently his aching, desperate soul.
As he winks, waves an unsteady hand
at the frowning postman and croaks
“Be lucky, me old shiner!”
Womanless and better for it these days,
each precious penny he drinks alone.
Trough’s the Bar every other Monday only,
when giro cheque brings colour through
the otherwise mundaneness of his front door.
By midnight he’s not arrested exactly
but taken in for being incapable to walk.
Where they let him sleep for six hours
before letting him quietly out the backway.
It’s a gruelling mile and a half wobble
to his lodgings on t’other end of town.
But almost two weeks horizontal
watching portable black and white telly
and he’ll be once more ready for The Crown.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.