Imagine this Scene

Night taps on the pub's glass with weedy wooden fingers.
Fireflies and bestial eyes star the dark.
Never does the tender bar wood finish drying before a new sloshing inundates it.
Drunks have kids to come home to but they don't want to come home.
Wifes are waiting by the door.
Blame will be laid more than he so the drunk stays and chuckles.
Mates make the most mundane setting fun. When the next pitcher's done the old jokes will be new.
He hates his work but it's the only way he knows to make a living: with his hands, large and calloused. A man's hands.
He falls off his barstool and barfs.
He thinks over his failures, the people who've used him, stolen, whom he hasn't come back on.
He misses his father, mother, brothers, and sisters.
The owner, an old friend, calls the drunk's home.
He thinks on his debts. Everyone says he owes them. From bookies to creditors.
When he hits it big, he'll be set.
You have to hope for something.
His wife comes in, they carry him out, it's time to ride home.