ten floors up
sat at a table
his bare bones of feet
spread in delicate balance

on his skull
a few wisps of hair
brown-grey like his
pullover and trousers

the officer broke the lock
turned his head away
from what he saw
imagined intolerable odours
took a handkerchief
from his pocket
held it to his nose
not that the smell was bad
most had been eaten by time

scraps of food in a cupboard
were dry like the skeleton
seated at the table
his neighbour
just as alone
in a corridor of doors
hadn’‘t knocked
hadn’‘t smelt anything
felt privacy needed to be respected

© Mary Jenkins

Peter Macrow,
Tasmanian Times Poetry Editor.
Tasmanian poets or those with a Tasmanian link are invited to send up to 5 poems which have not appeared previously in print or electronic media to:
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For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow