A Prison Of His Own Making

He sits contemplating the dust
Covering the table
Bookcase
Table
Him.

He sits in a small
Haddock block prison
Of his own making
Painted the latest shade of beige,
Called ecru this year.
Or was it eggshell?
Did he say that aloud?

He needed
Wanted
No one
Everything by himself
For himself.
My way or the highway, buddy boy!
Did he say that aloud, again?

He sits in the same chair
He sits in everyday
A crusty,
Rusty,
Dusty old man.
Bastards, all of them!

He did not
Would not
Could not
Love anyone.
No, sir, no one was going
To own him.
It's my money, damn you all.

It was all his
Right down to the last speck of dust.
All his
In the dark
All alone.