mac the cleaner has deep carved wrinkles under wide bloodshot eyes. this morning he hides himself under a blue anorak hood. a brown roll-up is visible sticking out toothpick thin from white bristle lips. he lights it in solitude out on the hospital back lane.
he looks rough these days. he is death white pale.
he didnt used to be. he used be old leather.
his eyes look down at cracked concrete and pebbles laying where the rain left them. he used to look at the grey clouds and loudly disclaim all and any weather.
he says MORNING but the life has vanished from his voice. less a greeting now an automatic observation.
i know he used camp with old rockers and retired bikers for the volkswagon weekender and drink homebrew from stone jars and cook Aldi steaks in a half-drum bbq.
i know on a monday he used to say FIVE DAYS TO GO and laugh a throaty smokers cackle.
i know on a wednesday he used to say HALFWAY THERE and laugh a throaty smokers cackle.
and on a friday WOOHOO.
i know he has a married daughter over the river and no wife.
i know he visits his dad twice a year saving up for the train. until he had a fall and they moved him from country isolation to a local home.
i know his moaning used to be cheery.
i know he stops for a pint with the market traders on the way home everyday and sometimes i'd lend him money for it.
i know he always paid back prompt.
i know he reads fantasy paperbacks by people i never heard of feet up in the broom cupboard clutter of the private ward.
i know before pay day he'll ask for baccy and i'd let him roll a few from my pouch for the evening.
i know he'd use his own brown liquorice papers.
i known him a long time but i dont know him well.
i think he may have had bad news.
concerning his dad.
or his own health.
but his face no longer invites conversation.
the funnyfarm
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