Old man at the bar

There was something admirable in his capacity for self-destruction

No illusions to the extent of damage he done to himself on a daily basis

His liquid and walkers crisp diet obliterating his innards

The inside was reflected outward through the bone, flesh, blood and skin

The pale grey complexion

Riddled with sores

Melting into his dying hair

His blackened teeth

And

Browning gums

The cracks in his hand where red

Almost glowing with slow infection

Dirt firmly planted under his finger nails

Lager son

As he tapped the blood red T

The man was a ghost

Floating through whatever public house could stand his stench

From early doors to closing time

His lager and whiskey chase

Grouse with a bit o’ water

The throat could barely make a sound

Due to the lack of company he kept

It had little use for conversation

Reduced

To a gaping passage for alcohol to flow down

I have become death

Gladly selling the ailing man

His profitable

Suicide

For three twenty a pint

Lager please barman

He sits head in hands

From a distance you wonder if he’s actually dead

So still

Like an old statue left for time and moss

We work round him

So used to the decay

We only care when we notice the smell

His catheter had burst

Pish and bodily fluid pouring out a plastic tube attached to his leg

The fluid dripped

And slowly crept across the floor

Tiny streams in each of the gaps in the floorboard

He sits head in hands

Disgrace and despair

So we phoned him a taxi and shuffled him out

A broken man

Pitiful

But an inconvenience

But he’ll be back

Or maybe he won’t

And I’ll wonder if he found a new bar to haunt

Or maybe

That was the last

Lager I served him

And the last taxi I shuffled him into

Somewhere

Only known to the taxi driver and ferryman

Lying in his bed

Old

Alone

And cold

With only his perished liver for warmth.