He sits quietly
on a threadbare sofa,
hand resting on the carcass
of a dying pit bull.
Its dry tongue dangles,
a tattered flag of surrender,
breath wheezes, then exits,
a small death in the parlor.
The kitchen stands still,
a witness in the shadows.
The bedroom,
a tomb sealed with silence.
Hallways stretch into oblivion.
The house, an abandoned script,
empties itself of sound.