Mr. Nobody

there's a dead man
in a box down at the
funeral home... nobody
came to see...

but hell, nobody came
when he was alive....
nobody called, nobody wrote...

and Mr. Nobody went about
his days, doing what you do
to get by... cooking small meals,
and drinking black coffee....

watering his plants, walking
his dog, sitting in his chair....
staring at old photographs
of children grown and moved....

and of the woman he loved
for forty years... buried beneath
a tree down by the church...
now he lies in the box, still,

cold, and lifeless... no voices,
no tears.... his dog wandered off....
there's nobody to bury nobody
in the world where nobody lived

and died...

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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