Coming Soon?

He looks old,
sick and frail.
Words which seem
too heavy for his mouth
slide from lop-sided lips
on a trickle of spit.
"Hate the stuff now," he slurs.
"Hate the stuff."

I steer the conversation
to better times,
before dependency,
when he could
take or leave it.

Outside the window
teens swill beer;
never anticipate it
becoming a necessity.
He lifts a gnarled
and withered hand
to rip one open,
be reminded
of what's lost,
and of his dependency.

"Hate it," he moans,
"Hate it."
"Bloody Velcro......"

Chris Major

If you have any comments on this poem, Chris Major would be pleased to hear from you.