HOUSEBOUND

Lily Stevens

The man’s kitchen was the room most reflective of his state of mind
Pots and pans encrusted with the remains of two-week-old dinner
Cutlery and plates stacked like Jenga releasing a stale grimy stench
Spam and ready meals clogged together in his moulding blocked sink      
Whilst bottles lay smashed in reflective greens besides the back door
Next to the dog bed matted in the hairs of a dog who died 2 years ago
34 voicemails patiently waiting to be heard on his unplugged landline
46 unread letters shoved through his letterbox begging for a response
He kept curtains closed blinds shut hoping people would forget him
Everything cried out to be helped besides the man who lived inside
He did not think he was deserving of something even close to care
But his cupboards were perfect precisely organised and categorised
Into reds and whites mornings and afternoons months and years
Into alphabetical order order of colour order of the date printed
So he would never lose control of the thing he believed kept him alive
Ales Amaretto Bourbon Brandy Baileys Chardonnay Beer Liquor
Malbec Pinot Pimms Rum Rioja Tanqueray Tequila Vodka Whiskey
A beautiful list of the flavours and tastes for every day which passed
He smashed his mirrors in a drunken rage one lonely Tuesday evening
Along with his dead mother’s ornaments and the picture of his son
Without the mirror he no longer noticed his overgrown grey beard
Balding in funny patches and emphasising his sunken dark eyes
His yellowing fragile skin bone-thin limbs which ached with dread
Nor the rashes covering his back a spider-web of arteries and veins
Brown teeth caked with plaque and a permanently stale breath
Or the sad way his wrinkles grew larger as his body shrunk smaller
He tried to forget the way he was the reasons he was every single day
Until he would fail to survive another day in his weakened body
And be trapped in the shell of his very own haunted house