Portrait of an Old Man
He thought it was an undignified retreat
As he sat on the commode
Overlooking the Archway Road.
Driving traffic in its brutish roar
Passed his graffiti strewn door.
I expected to be some sort of a sage
Of an antique age,
Rather than a pensioner
With only tinned pilchards to eat
In tomato sauce,
Accompanied by a guilty whisky
Taken neat.
His eyes sunken into their sockets
His hands warmed in thread less pockets.
Now pulled down to his bruised thighs,
And his shirt un-tucked
Poked out from the jumper
A slave to his prostrate
A terrified refugee from cancer.
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