Poor Old Soul

Poor Old Soul.


I stopped, stared at the starkness
of the room in which I stood.
How can someone choose to live here?
Someone did and someone could.

Broken bottles by the trash can.
Fetid food within the fridge.
Grubby, greasy, grey old sofa.
Lines of dust lurk on the ledge.

Signs of something surreptitious
leaving tracks along the hall.
Flaccid fruit finds penicillin
growing gamely in the bowl.

As I stand and stare, astonished,
I feel sorrow, I feel hurt
for the poor lost soul who lived here,
then passed on amongst the dirt.