His Country Home

But the pillars are intact. He stares a moment longer. Just stares.
Thin, thinner than thin, emaciated, he walks onto the porch,
sagging, decayed, black mildew creeps up the walls, kudzo-like.
Just another alien invasive species wrecking havoc on
His Beloved.

Floorboards broken. Shutters hang by a single hinge. Termite ridden, too.
He would open the door to enter the Manse … if there was a door.
Step smoothly over the threshold into that gaping doorway
like a whore opening a zipper and mounting a faceless erection,
still wet with another man’s cum.

Picking his way over piles of debris, abandoned furniture, books, clothes.
Rats? armadillos? snakes? rustle, jump out, slide from sight.
Nothing left of lifetimes. Idly, he picks a book from the melting pile.
A diary, the pages a solid mass, The ink bleached away by fastness.
Another person’s memories
Gone.