he's sleeping

he may be
dead inside.
it's hard to tell.
you get no scent
of a body
decaying, so
you hope he's
on ice,
or covered in
lime, or
locked tight
inside a freezer.
she closes
the door so
quickly
and so tight,
not a hint
or whiff
escapes.
each window
is sealed
shut, the curtains
taped
together.
you get not even
a glimpse
of what goes on
in that darkened
home.
but she says,
be quiet he's
sleeping.
don't knock or
disturb him.
he's not feeling
well.
his truck never
moves,
and she seems to
be wearing
his clothes,
his gloves
and boots
as the mail man
hands her
another envelope
with is
name on it.