We’ve all seen him,
there on the home terrace,
just to the left of the goal.
Same stanchion and always stood on his own.
Dressed in Saturday best; flat cap resplendent come rain or shine.
It’s been his spot for forty years.
“Poor old sod. How come he’s on his own?”
“Did he never have the son he always wanted?”
“No friends or neighbours to come with?”
But we all keep our distance.
Contact restricted to a knowing glance and a nod.
A figure to be avoided in the half time tea queue.
Any conversations kept to a minimum.
No one wanting to get involved.
Forty years same spot at the bar.
Each weeks wages swilled down his neck.
Every night stumbling blindly home.
Back to batter his wife and son.
Loyalty only lasts so long.
Now he stands alone.