The books on the shelf,
read long ago,
now spines in a row.
The pictures on the wall,
hung there,
hide the wall’s bare.
The bottles on the counter,
I don’t touch,
ron, brandy, scotch.
The plants in the bedroom,
when I remember,
get water.
There are few clues,
salseras hidden,
beneath the linen.
The relics in this place,
alive and not,
are all rot.
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