It took five minutes, more or less,
to fill, with what he left behind,
a cardboard box, and to compress
into its space, his life, unsigned
in much the way some paintings are,
then stash it in the waiting car.
In those five minutes, I remained
there in the small, vacated room,
while the red-faced landlord explained
a small arrears. Would I assume
responsibility and pay?
My conscience made me easy prey.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Richard Fleming would be
pleased to hear them.