Brutus

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.