Man With Cigarette

He sat at the beer stained table, a cigarette in his fingers. Smoke pooling round his cloth capped head, the look in his eyes still lingers. From his rough wool shirt to his DIY tattoo I could tell he was no stranger to labour. From the scars on his face and his broken nose, you wouldn't want him as a neighbour. Yet he had about him a dignity, a rough hewn, no nonsense stance. And eyes that spoke volumes of his life that sparked and mirrored and danced. His hands bore the wear of a life of toil, his shoulders a little stooped and weary. And, whether it was the smoke or memory, at times he seemed a little teary. He sat and sipped his favourite drink, a dark, nutty ale from the cask. What tales had he? What stories to tell? If I'd only the nerve to ask.