The Dead Man's Clothes
Ward-robe, things are stacked,
Jackets hang along the rack.
Stale smell of time that’s spent,
Designate the absent gent.
Practised shoes beside the door,
Cease to plod the polished floor.
A wallet emptied of its cash,
A modicum of the dead mans stash.
Buried deep beneath the clay,
He won’t be coming back today.
Copyright © David Byrne | Year Posted 2009
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