He sits in his chair.

Arms hang by his side,

Pendulous.

His fingers like his lips are slightly blue.

His intricate workings, his mechanisms 

have ceased to tick.

He is wound down, 

broken.

The radio whispers in his ear,

unheeded.

The milk sits on the doorstep,

uncollected.

They begin to smell

this man and his milk.

He wasn’t found when his family didn’t come to visit him.