The fan that
Stutters
In windows glass
Wheezes in
Its every turn
Alcohol and nicotine
Weary eyes
Thoughts that burn.
The last pub
On a wasteground
Better years
Its seen
Photos on
Its yellowed walls
Boxers battered faces
Outward beam.
Its regulars
Old and gnarly
Drawn back
As in a dream
A million hopes
Now faded
One step to oblivion
So it seems.