Wednesday, December 6


a lonely, old man,
sits in his lonely, old home,
with his very few possesions,
his memory is all he really owns.
there's a post-it on his oven,
reading "set the timer",
the white metal of the fridge,
is hidden under grocery reminders.
on the back of the front door,
a note points out his keys,
i wonder if he ever forgets,
the read the post-its he sees.
all the pictures on the mantle,
are faded, black and white,
the only space in the house,
where no memos lie in sight.
he hums tunes from better days,
as he drains the kitchen sink,
relises he hasn't washed the dishes,
and closes his eyes to think.
there's never a knock on the door,
and the phone never rings,
"no wonder I can't accomplish,
these stupid little things".
he tears down the post-its,
reduces them to a glowing ember,
now all he can do is think back,
and remember...


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