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
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.