WINTER OF 33

I looked and saw him; a handsome
young man with the swagger and gait
of innocence. A smile and laugh the
radiance of which could be seen and
heard for miles. A safe haven
On a dark lonely night.
He was an attractive soul
going his own way.

I looked and he was old.
I looked and he was older.
I looked and he was no more.

When next I laid eyes on him it was
cigarettes and gin; a new tattoo and pretty
ladies each in a flowered dress. It was an
afternoon in June, the kind that makes you
Sleepy.

I looked and he was old.
I looked and he was older.
I looked and he was no more.

When I next saw him it was in the winter
of ‘33. Huddled around a gin-joint stove with a lady on each knee,
no flowered dress misses these.
It was still cigarettes
and tall glasses of gin.
It was one-bed sleeping
Three. It was cards most nights until the luck
ran out. But there was still that smile and a laugh that could be
heard for miles.

I looked and he was old.
I looked and he was older.
I looked and he was no more.

When next we meet
he came to me as I sit
at a café table. There were no
Cigarettes; only a cough and morphine
had replaced the gin to dull the pain. The
easy smile was still alive though the laughter had almost died.
He took my hand one last time,
asking…
“WILL I LAUGH AGAIN?”