arthur

he glances up
from life stained eyes

as he swallows his pint
and surveys the room

his mortally wounded flesh

which decays as we watch him

will only be mourned

by the dented barrels

in the damp cellars

he always pays with change

careful to discard

the silver fives that

he hates so much

he lays them in beery puddles
to annoy the tepid barman

then shuffles back to his corner seat

unhurried
uncaring

and surrounded by a generation

that will never remember him

he quietly sips to their youth
with frothy bleached lips
and open flies

for he is Old Arthur

a man whose court opens

at midday and shuts at eleven

a king whose Avalon awaits

within a pint a rough cider

(he was an old man who had worked the docks in Bristol.. he sat in the same spot in the pub for over 40 years.. we talked often and played cribbage.. and I was one of four at his funeral)