He hadn’t been ill in the clinical sense
but he had destroyed his soul in search of it

He had chased it across deserts and
through
Labyrinthine
Streets
through whore house windows
with no socks on his feet

The Policeman who found his wrung out corpse
rifled his pockets to confirm his thoughts

He had a tattoo of a dog on his upper torso
and the key to a deposit box taped in his shoe

a picture of a child’s gravestone
and inside a spent wallet
a
picture of
you

On the doorstep you crumpled at the finality of words
a kindly neighbour made you some tea
he’d be sorry that it broke you the way that it did

but happy to see you set free