Out Of Town

Out Of Town

In his sixties,
he was fifties man in the nineties,
his greased-back hair a mixture of greys,
silver and dark.
The hand which held a walking stick
carried a poor shape, ill defined,
but you could make out the bluebird
tattooed on the back,
between thumb and forefinger,
as had been the fashion.
His other arm pushed a trolley
through the supermarket car park
and the rolled sleeve revealed more wrinkled ink,
faded by the years.
He stooped slightly,
rocking his way back to the car,
conforming to the lifestyle outlined
by a purpose-built environment,
stopping only to check
that his loyalty card
was safely tucked away.

Years ago he was one of the lads.
Years ago he could handle himself.
Years ago, he was a force to be reckoned with
at Butlins
and at the Palais,
when there'd been real towns
with late night buses,
unfiltered cigarettes
and coffee bars mixed with old-fashioned pubs.

These days though,
his inside pocket carries a lottery ticket
instead of a flick-knife.
He moved out some time ago now,
new start, new job, new life.
Cracked up, maybe,
but not all it was.
Forced into early retirement,
these visits to the supermarket,
these little shopping trips,
have become a regular outing.
He looks forward to it and, I've noticed,
his sleeves are always rolled up,
whatever the weather,
as he rocks on
between trolley and stick.