He shuffled along the pavement
like dead leaves in the wind,
always carrying a third support.
Mr. Crestfallen’s sombre eyes drooped
into heavy bags,
almost reaching the network of spider veins
crawling, multiplying as freely
through his sickly pale jowls
as the cells in his lungs.
His spine arched; leathered back
beginning to recover
from the generation of shovelling
for pittance and grit.
Mr. Crestfallen was inclined to remain solitary; but,
when he did appear
he wore a stiff suit, a yellow tie
and every so often,
a transparent grin.