The beer-stained table.
Voices are low, strained from years
Of abuse; domestic arguments,
Football matches,
Alcohol.
A man watches as his week's wages
Slip smoothly into another man's pocket.
He'll win it back tomorrow with what
Spare change he can scrounge
From the ever unwilling public
And sofa cushions.
The keeper calls last orders,
He says he'll stay for one more,
To put it on his tab.
He'll pay it all back with tomorrow's win.
Assurances as empty as his glass.
He shuffles through the night,
Back to his one-room apartment.
The bathroom is at the end of the hall,
Too far tonight, he pukes out of the window.
A faceless voice shouts abuse from the dark,
Fleeting moment of human contact
Before the night sidles in through
The open smoke-tainted pane,
Carefully smothering him,
Pushing him down,
To bed.
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