Black heels clack hardwood floors
in every room, almost too many rooms
since his wife left, and the
extra fridge was put in the garage
to hold the bottles
he’d drown in by
the age of fifty. Then
the kids all moved
away, calling
him only by his first name,
and even the cat escaped
through a gap in the backyard fence.

In the far corner of the
downstairs maze,
distant chatter that
isn’t quite mourning
fades behind the tick of
the grandfather clock;
the saddest parlor in West End.
Dusty rayon couches,
chairs in horrid browns and tans,
enough to seat six
around a once-inviting
fireplace.
Ivy dripping from every ceiling corner,
plastic English roses—three in a vase
and one frowning
from a cracked frame on the table,
windows rusted shut, heavy curtains
drawn closed.

“This was Mr. Davidson’s favorite room,”
his nurse says,
though she only knew him
towards the end.
On the mantel, dreary London
captured in oil grays and
through the rain,
even the smudged faces
in the carriage windows seemed indifferent.
The pastor says “gone too soon” but
what was there to leave?