House #6597

He once ran back home from the telegraph office
And was never seen again.
He’d once had a marigold garden but
You wouldn’t recognise it now;
There is a snake crawling among the tall grass.
The roof is cracked and no doubt leaks,
And the postman doesn’t sigh anymore
While placing his letters in the bin instead of
The cracked letter box.
Some say he’s so old he doesn’t even know
That we’d reached the moon.
But ever so rarely, after midnight, you can hear
A loud radio playing music from another era.

The neighbours tried;
In the first few days they knocked on his blue door.
But they’d only hear the crack of a rocking chair.
The guys came for the bills, knocked on the door,
And yelled ‘We’ll be back!’
They found the money on the porch the next day.
They say he has taken to writing to earn;
Cos, there must be someway he’s still earning
And there’s no other way to endure such a life.
No one knows what happened for sure,
Ther are rumours floating around, but I think
Such longing for solitude needs something deeper
As a cause than anything us simple folk can fathom