The yellow cab pulled up by the curb.
Twelve o’clock on the dot.
Trust Macca to be on time for a feed.

‘Hello Big Boy! Lovely to see you.’
His blancmange face was unresponsive.
His oversized glasses glinted in the sun.

‘Better buy some beer, I suppose...’
He shambled off to the pub round the corner,
his stick pecking the pavement.

I remembered the Macca of old,
with his scented baby skin
and his lovable teddy bear frame.

The rich Macca with the Merc
and the plethora of credit cards.
The Macca before bankruptcy and the stroke.

He had always been huge
and his love of the female form
and his delicacy with watercolors were legionary.

These days he has put down his brush
and the food he has craved all his life,
can no longer compensate for his decrepitude.

Alison Cassidy

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dear-old-macca/