The man; lies slumped on the floor…
His hand still has the dummy…eyes open,
Motionless; Joints stiff…
A sad sight from their heyday
In the working men’s clubs. The flat cap and pint
Of mild brigade.
A Capstan full strength cloud would hang low, and
Religion was kept locked in a cupboard.
They were the life and soul of the party, occasionally
They would unlock the cupboard!
Expletives would ricochet around the room, followed by laughter.
He lays there sweating profusely, breathing heavy…
No voices thrown, no applause.
A hand moves, bringing false hope to the dummy
With his last breath… the dummy whispers… Goodbye.