Paul Tristram- A Poem

Chrissy’s Last Stop Tap

We kicked in his caravan door,

found him laying in his bed,

he was yellow.

“That’s the liver, I’ve seen it

four or five times before!”

said the landlord with a sigh.

“I’ll go and phone the police,

don’t touch anything!”

Chrissy’s pancreas had fucked up

six months ago, the poor bastard,

he knew he was dying.

I looked around the place,

it was stinking.

Empty bottles and cans everywhere.

Two full ashtrays, some porn mags,

three half eaten meals

on cracked and chipped plates,

a bucket by the TV which he pissed into.

I looked back at his face.

The tufts of hair that stuck

out of his ears and nostrils.

The scars and burn marks.

He had spent twenty years in jail

on and off and yet he considered

himself an alcoholic.

Two years to the day

they had let him out of prison

for the last time.

He had called himself

a retired villain.

Alcoholism did not kill him.

He died of want, of longing,

of unhappiness, of desperation.

Alcohol just happened to be easy

to get hold of.

I picked up an unopened

half bottle of vodka

and put it in my pocket,

spat on the carpet

and walked out.

I would not miss him.

No one would miss him.

But I would think of this

from time to time.

Published in In Between Hangovers, Issue #1, Autumn 2006

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who now lives on the Southern coast of Britain, has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.