By: Gareth C

He is a labourer of tobacco,
margarine coloured finger tips
rotting apple brown skin.
Lungs struggling to inflate, or breath,
though one day may fail to take him out;

But he is happy with his rolled fag and
a pint that keeps the engine chugging.
Froth sits on his top lip from the swell
of beer coming in like the tide.

Glug! Glug! Glug! Adams apple
bouncing in his throat, a buoy on a wave.
Stubble, dog paw rough.

Then he sits on the unstable bar stool
sipping, smoking, labouring baccy.