hunter's new place

Ascending the dark,
despondent stairs,
a nail caught my sweater—
an urgent warning to turn around.
The door was shut
as I neared its unwelcoming frame
Already, the scent of old cigarettes
filled my sorry nostrils.
The kitchen was tiny
and white with heartbreak.
It was lit with just one bulb
and ashes gathered on the blades of the ceiling fan:
the remnants of cigarettes, and days of sunshine
long gone by.
His cupboards were bare . . .
and in his fridge, lay only an empty bottle of steak sauce
Proud in its defeat.
I wondered how long that steak sauce had sustained him
and wondered, “Why couldn’t I?”
I speculated as to how long his stomach had starved
as mine began to ache, and I began to cry.
Depleted cans of beer lay strew about the ground,
their presence much like his,
used till empty
and disregarded
on the floor.