A dead man’s like on my timeline,
paper round bags smelling of cat piss,
a whole day in the house,
never a thought of leaving or dressing.
A small head on small shoulders in huge hands,
as if this smashed orb will fall and thud
down the stairs of a house so loud.
A shout is a whisper and screams conversation,
the hollow thud of feet in every room on every stair,
drums of goblins in the deep
and I try to hide.