Sometimes,

Sometimes,

Away from the lights

And noise of the city,

In a quiet corner,

Dark and dirty,

Behind the trash can,

Sits an old man,

Wrapped in clothes

He found in a black bag,

Stacked in the doorway

Of a charity shop.

He waited until after

The high class gal

In the fur coat

Made the last drop.

She looked good,

Walked with a sway,

Even stopped to check the faces

Of the guys in the line.

He got close enough

To smell her perfume.

It was familiar,

And he ducked back,

Out of the line of sight.

It triggered a memory,

Of times when he carried

The finest malt,

In a hip flask made of silver.

They drank together,

She and he,

Under the stars.

In the distance,

The sound of trucks and cars,

Going about their business,

But they were

Lost in their own world,

And it felt good.

A different time,

When he was immortal.

As he looked back

On his life time,

Something he

Tried not to do,

He had nothing to show,

But that battered old flask.

He had it wrapped,

In a brown paper bag,

To keep it safe,

From the wheelers

And stealers,

Who would fleece him down,

If only they knew,

What he was hiding,

Along with a photograph

Of her,

And a diamond ring.

They lay together,

In the back of a watch case,

An old, gold Daniels,

With a broken face.

It was nestled in the folds

Of a torn silk scarf,

And stashed,

In the lining of his jacket.

Close enough to touch,

Without needing

To unwrap it.

He was frightened,

He would be tempted to sell,

But without their reassurance,

And the memories they held,

There was no doubt,

He would surely die.