5 February 2013
Every day, he sits at the bar A tankard of bitter glued to his palm, He wears his best shirt in the absence of occasion Talks to the hikers, but with the absence of conversation
When it’s quiet in there, he sits quite alone Like an oak in a field, not moving at all He’ll talk to the landlord, but he keeps it brief ‘same again please’ his eyes on the floor
He stares at his feet, as if they were art Picasso’s or Monet’s, he seems deep in thought His eyes are the moon, in the middle of the month, But the orbit is halted, they remain half shut.
He’s here for companionship, although he himself is secret His shoes are shined constantly, his laces tied so perfect Each loop is identical in size and shape to the other He’s waiting, one would think, to find something of a lover.
He only stirs for a cigarette, and even then it’s brief The smoke has turned his hair grey, and is yellowing his teeth He grimaces and nods his head whenever I walk in Not happy with the prospect of the exact same day again.
I fleetingly consider this man’s past, and wonder What bought him here, and what has he lost. Was he a soldier, footballer, or loving husband? But solidarity is his routine, and has been for a while
He could be a wolf, apart from his pack An unsinkable ship, lost from his fleet I wonder so often whenever I see him, about The tales that could be told, just of his feet
Occasionally he’ll grunt, his way of concurring Or else exhale, while shaking his head Like a cow, removing the bluebottles That have settled there, like him in his chair.
He has a mobile phone, without many contacts But he only communicates when holding a glass I wonder about his family, I know where he lives In a cottage alone, set by the bridge
He never talks of his sons or his daughters, His father his mother, his sister or brother I’m sure they exist, but perhaps this explains The reason he comes here time and again
Alone At The Bar • Opuss № I