My neighbor is dead.
He was a retired math teacher,
That's pretty much all I know.
I've only seen him three or four times;
He always wore a plaid St. John's Bay shirt
And was sitting on the front steps,
Waiting for the annoying buzz of the dryer
To come along.
Looking back , I remember he looked sad,
Though I didn't think much of it at the time.
The strange, acrid smell started to seep
Out of his apartment at the end of May.
At first I thought he might've gone out of town
And forgot to take out the garbage, but by the third night
I knew, however subconsciously, what was up.
The land-lady came over after her shift at the hospital;
'I know that smell' she said; 'I know that smell,'
And her face got pale. She unlocked the door.
Five minutes later she told me he has collapsed onto the floor,
Surrounded by half a dozen empty bottles of whiskey and one
Unopened pint of scotch. The place reeked terribly;
It was dark and stuffy; She quickly closed the door.
I could already hear the police and ambulance sirens in the distance.

For days, I felt creeped out walking into the building; even sitting
in my apartment. I knew this was stupid, but I felt I could've done something.
I never tried to strike up a conversation with him; just a quick hi how are you, etc.
He didn't die of loneliness, but I felt that he did; at least a part of him did.
A week later, his ex-wife and his estranged son dropped by;
They came in an old Chevy truck, which they loaded with his few belongings;
No furniture, mostly old books and outdated shirts and pants.
As I watched them drive off, I suddenly pictured him in my mind:
An old man in a plaid shirt, hands on his knees,
Watching the drum of the dryer spin round and round.