Forty-fourth cigarette of the day,
And this park bench is damp.
I can see a collapsing building
Across from me,
Decrepit and empty.
A squatter home down to the flooding
And faulty stolen electricity.

Some have called it a tombstone.
A monolith of "once was".
The concrete walls are chewed out -
Rats, stray bullets, car wrecks.
People stay there.
Among the dying road trees
And shards of glass.

They stand and sleep
In the wake of a stunted wind
A constant low chill.
A nipping memory filled with fire.
Watery eyes haunt that place,
Locked in missed chances
Failed good-byes.

There the dust lays thick.
People die in places like that all the time
They don't get medals or accolades,
Just a place to bloat and rot.

They die for their own reasons
Like everyone should.