GONE FISHING

There he lay, snuggled only by a puddle of discomfort.

Held in impropriety, drowned in drink, not really drunk.
Chap without even a comely smile.
His lights are on, but there’s nobody home.
Watching seconds, as they drift, finding meaning in minutes as they zoom past.
Wondering if his next breath is his last.
Struggling a last toke on his stale cigarette.
Gap between fingers two and three wrapped in toxic nicotine.
Burberry flat cap, left open at his right hand, fishing for coins as they pass.

Night falls again.
Tugs himself up, discarding his butt.
Brushes self off.
Third time this week he weren’t moved on.
Nodded acknowledgement to passing old bill, as he wanders, towards home at the top of the hill.
(C) Livvi x 2014

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