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About the death of a lonely man in a Wellington flat.

He lived alone
He died alone
No-one to notice his presence
No-one to feel his absence.

People talk now of how
we don't know each other these days
He had a quiet countenance
in a raucous busy world.

His possessions numbered few
a newspaper, bible and
ashes of a nameless tabby
cat in an old urn.

He was a Postmaster for his
whole working life
Looking after letters
but never the recipient

The privacy we place around
ourselves is a formidable
barrier barbed with lonely
bravado.