Night descends, the high street is flooded with gaudy neon and smells of fast food. Weaving expertly in and out of bars on high heels and clouds of aftershave, the night came alive.
In a dark shop doorway sat Phil every night. Never bothering people; trying to wrangle one last cigarette from remnants collected. Phil was on drugs, something dirty that people shy away from in fear. That fear spread to Phil, he was scared. He wanted to look tough and worldly.
Giving him two cigarettes and a lighter, I and everyone should salute Phil.
Good will come to him.
Words and pics: ©DJA 2016.
The Angry Farmer 
Bravo!
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