Monday Poem: Solitary

[L'Absinthe - by Edgar Degas]

Solitary

I should have been that solitary man
In an old flat cap and creased, tired mac,
Sipping a single slow half-pint of mild
In the back shadows of the public bar;
Who does not look up with expectation
At every creak of the opening door;
Who strolls back to a solitary bed-sit
To toast one thin-sliced round of cheap white bread
Over the thin heat of a one-bar fire
While, on the mantelpiece, his cocoa cools
And the radio whispers the late news.