Cowering into his huge overcoat,
Like a tortoise into its shell.
Every week walking, with sturdy stick,
on frail unsteady, trembling, legs.
A rolling gait, like a sailor
Who's been too long at sea.

His pitiful shopping carried home.
In anonymous, thin white plastic bags,
Plain bags. No cheery messages on show,
As if no shop wanted to know.
Or be associated with him.
Alone and lonely, unheeded.

Jaw set, unsmiling lips, grim and cracked.
A worried frown, etched deep,
by life and the acid of his bitter years,
A permanent feature on his face.
Eyes sunk, deep, in wrinkled, sagging, sockets,
Staring at some unseen ghosts?

Contemplating his past? Regretting it?
Thinking of his future? Dreading it?
Eyes, incontinent, rheumy red, running tears,
As if in mourning for all his years,
Staring into the murk of his dark veiled secrets.
His past: or his future. Not liking either one