He's got a phone that rings with actual bells
and dials with a spring-loaded rotary.
There's rabbit ears on top of his TV,
all wrapped in silver foil. Whatever smells
behind his dirty couch--a cloying scent,
like orchids on a pile of rotting meat--
no longer bothers him. He props his feet
on stacks of papers: old demands for rent,
junk mail and racing forms. A tissue box,
long empty, sits beside his gnarled left fist,
and in his right, the gun. He'll sit there till
one of his kids realizes he's been missed
and sends someone around to break the locks.
Till then he's patient, cold, and very still.
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