Bare yellow walls,

painted white sill.

Books, lining hall,

bed without frill.


Curtains drawn closed,

windows sealed shut.

Still air, unbreathed;

intimate dust.


Scuffed, neat slippers,

knocked eye-to-eye;

kipper draped socks

hung up to dry.


An old wet room

tiled as flesh pink:

toilet, shower,

flannel and sink.


Cupboard cups cracked,

plates piling high.

Tilting pots stacked.

taps, twisted dry.


Cheap, dented tins,

dated with guilt;

fancy fridge things

black as the milk.


Nobody grieves.

Door hung on latch;

tobacco leaves.

Medicines packed.


Tea cupped round stains.

Skin shrunk to bone.

Burrowed eyes lame:

man, home alone.


Hair coarse as seeds,

clothes grown in moss.

Elbows now weeds:

face, melting frost.





Sawdust for feet,

plywood for nails.

Skin sucked to seat.

Head shrunk to veil.


Controls remote,

remains on seat;

body now bled,

sat up to great.


All home alone.

Time made to kill.

Still, silent phone,

pension paid bills.


Visitors come,

too late to dine;

cleansing the wound,

trespassing time.


Sorting the mess.

Marking the list.

Memory games.

Remains of missed.


















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