He uses the palms of his hands

To smooth back his hair

Greased and slightly limp

A nervous smile and the hands shake

As he notices as if for the first time

The right forefinger and ring

Are yellowed with the fumbling tax

Of all the years served

with a habit that formed

As old as the years on his face

So many words that he can’t remember

And the tie that he wears

That always comes loose

As he trots out the patter

To those he serves with his matter of fact

Smile and lounging cough

And the guile he has rehearsed

That starts with

Well to be perfectly honest I believe you would be best

And he knows he’s got them hooked

As they don’t seem to notice the purple veined nose

And the cloudy red eyes

After a heavy session

Or the wheezing breath

And heaving chest

And just when the boss thinks he has cashed in his chips

He turns up next day

As bright as a penny

And always able to turn a trick

But he is beginning to realise time is short

And he can no longer write off the pains in his chest

And the tremor in his arm

As he sinks back in the soft leather chair

Fighting the urge

Through torn and battered nails

To reach for a slug and a drag

From his old friends

Mr and Mrs death