The shoulders haunched
The face pocked, rived and valleyed
With a lifetime's small tragedies
The slanting mirror on the wall
Emblemed with Ind Coope and Alsop (sic)
Reflecting his receding hair
his thick shoulders
His silent simian hirsute hands

What is, what was the weight
that sloped those haunching shoulders
that man alone, solitary, musing, thinking
of what can he be
nothing?

Or does he live again the nightmare
Of all the shame he suffered and
made others suffer
the torn promise, the shattered word
His red hand caught in the emotional till
The things he had never done
and never would do now
Lost lovely things, the hopeless things long lost
The hot blush of childhood lies
Love and hate and fear and love
again and hate
And the ultimate terrable
ineluctable wrath of God
Does he hear the silent howl
of death?

Haunched solitary, silent
That man alone in the saloon bar's corner
That man alone, solitary, musing
who can he be?
I lift my eyes from the bitter pint
I see that man in the mirror
That man is me.

Richard Burton November 5th 1965

A man i once knew, the older man in the first bar i worked, he taught me the word curmudgeon, and he was a great friend, he spoke to no one without insulting them, but we used to talk for hours, me the 19 year old barmaid, him the 50 something curmudgeon, one day, perhaps one of the last times i saw him, he gave me this poem, he had typed it out for me on his old typewriter, and i kept it safe for a long time, i found it today, and now, a little older and maybe wiser i read the words and realise perhaps what he was telling me about himself, now i am wondering if he is still alive, and perhaps next time i visit my home town i should look him up and see if he remembers me.
I am posting this for Jim, the curmudgeon, my old friend, the man who made me invest in a decent dictionary to do the cryptic crosswords lol i hope you all like it, x