A Death Alone

The lonely man who lives below has died.
The stench mugged me as I walked into the building
and lingered like a bailiff for three days.
The ambulance drivers, with their stretcher in the hall,
leave the offal's door ajar for all
the Pandora smells to seep.
For the first time I dreaded my apartment,
the dirty taste of ignominy
and death's olfactory assault
giving me new respect for the maggots' meal
and rot.

— Greg Gatenby