Where's Mr Adams Gone?

I work four hours a week, I do,

At the dry cleaners up the road.

And every week, I see him.

Him, with his well worn smile

That no one sees anymore.

Him, who wears his medals

Proudly on his chest despite the fact

That no one seems to care.

Him, who struggles inside,

Dragging himself over the threshold.

I always offer to open the door for him,

But he will not be mollycoddled,

Especially not by one of the generation

That he says has abandoned him.

Every week, he heaves himself in from the cold,

Always carrying the same battered "Tesco" bag.

Always tipping the same item out onto the counter:

His old, black funeral suit.

It's faded for it's used so often:

One friend was buried Wednesday,

And another died on Friday.

They're dropping like flies, you know,

It's the freezing Winter's fault.

"One two piece suit, for Tuesday, please,"

So I hand him his ticket, and he shuffles out.

Again, I offer to help him, but he declines, as always.

Some things never change.

Especially not Old Mr Adams.

A man of habit, if ever there was,

So I wonder where he's got to:

His suit is ready for him to wear once again.