The Visitor
He pushed at the open door
no sound
just darkness inside.
Dust filtered his
nostrils,
a mustiness of lost years
inhabited his senses.
A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell,
the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories
of his
living hell.
A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at his feet
He switched on the light
"Hello son
I knew you'd be back;
He's gone..."
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2023
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