To the ticking of the clock

He sits alone in the darkness,
Of his Council flat.
Mouth open, and head back,
A newspaper on his lap.
His heart still beats,
To the ticking of the clock.

His skin is dusty leather,
Cracking at the seams.
Mottled jaw, marked,
By a lifetime of Gillette.

He makes no sound,
In the darkness.
He is frozen; still.
The shine on his trousers,
Betrays a resignation,
To his fate.
How long is there left?
How long is a life?

He never thought,
That it would happen to him.
When he was twenty-one,
He never thought,
That he'd ever grow old.

Nothing has changed inside,
But the shell has dried and cracked.
He blinked an eye,
And youth slipped away.

In the faded light,
Of a sixty watt bulb,
He moves not a muscle.
A dress rehearsal,
For what lies ahead.