Tucked away in a cardboard box
coffin beneath moth-eaten
time-beaten materials of every variety,
with his owner-innards
so easily extracted, gizzards gone,
left him to loner-fate
moaning late into the night,
he was nothing
but abandoned shell, embalmed
leather corpse tethered by an old
lace to the dusty space
in the bottom shelf of Hell.
With a hole in his soul, he was the world’s
most stepped-on street peddler,
sweet old business meddler,
shoved into a nursing home by loved ones
who shamed his name and claimed
to have his best interests in mind.
Amongst a million cold, mold-choked things,
spider strings, rusty rings, ex-kings,
he couldn’t help but allow his dry tongue
to continue to eek meek requests for human
touch until the overwhelming bleak black
of moth mouths swallowed the sorry sucker
whole.
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