last house

it was a large
room darkened by
furniture made almost
of wood, the cushions
plaid and stuffed
with foam that eeked
out in mustard clumps,
the television on
in the corner
out of focus, rabbit
ears from another
era on top, with foil
on the tips, and
the blinds, ragged
and bent, tilted
off center down,
each chair a life,
in half slumber,
ancient turtle eyes
staring, a plastic
cup in hand of
grape juice, the taste
of some bitter pill
still on their tongues.
no window to open
to let the smell out.
and the visitors,
in horror at the
doorway, in tears,
shaking their heads at
what life has
become near the end
in this last house.