Summer Soft

I hear the same old boy

With the same old tune.

Pausing for a rasp and racking rapture of the lungs.

His haunch is something special:

Ale balances in his frail grasp.

Knuckles are sand dunes.

Cracked palms undulate dramatically.

His voice hoarse and thick:

Cockney cactus juice.

Pictures are painted

With momentary sweeps of a gaunt, left limb.

Cadences marked with a stroke on his stubble-ridden chin.

An abstract structure frames his

Nodding off, fables and limp gestures for another drink.

As his associates look out mournfully,

Too tight to even think.