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by Alister MacQuarrie

The only sound is the radio: You and Yours
Seeping past the empty beer bottles in the kitchen
To rise through the empty house. Home alone,
Every room is a museum piece. Do Not Touch.

There is something very basic here, very old,
Some instinct of childhood – or a whisper
Of your granddad’s funeral on a May afternoon.
All the empty space makes you seven again.
Like a seven year-old,
You have no possessions bigger than your bedroom.
With everyone gone, the house is no longer yours,
Just a remnant, a ghost of something you’re squatting in
Until this strange apocalypse ends.