my house breaths with the stink of gin

and the trees slump under the weight of ineptitude

and a lonesome cardboard box that once contained food

now sulks around the yard with the lone stray dog,

her teats rescinding after her young have migrated to new apartments and city parks

while elsewhere...

the cobwebs strung across my window have been abandoned

and my curtains of makeshift tablecloths towards the sun behind the glass

and the sound

of a cigarette being extinguished is the only sound

in the house, short of the short breath that cycles though my lungs