Work In Progress

I used to be successful, y’know. Once. Back in the day. Long time-go now, mostly forgotten; mostly buried under years of alcohol and drug-fugs. Buried deep they are, but not so deep that they don’t come calling, come hassling me, teasing me with promises. But I don’t go digging, no. Not me. Just sometimes they come at me like zombies, clawing at the fragile, earthy topsoil of my memories, arms out-stretched, limbs twisted or missing. They don’t want me ‘membering those other days, the suck-cesspit of life I once took a part in. Nor does I.
I puddling outside the train station, awaiting the daily tide of commuters to ebb and flow past, my shaking hands ready to greet those that don’t want shaking hands. Don’t touch me, they shout, hands holding ‘chiefs over noses, breathing dirt-clotted air in and insults out. My polystyrene cup, toothmarked and chipped, sits between my knees, a couple of coins jostling for space; they get no new friends today; they had no new friends yesterday. I’m not grumbling but stomach is. No successful today, like once I was. Back in the day.
All just memories now. Distant as second cousins.