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He lived upstairs. He lived alone. Always immaculately dressed. A polite man. Old fashioned manners. Worked long hours. Liked the pub. Was well read. He went missing. Never came home. The police came. Searched his flat. It was squalid. Bottles, newspapers, laundry. They found him. In the river. An autopsy done. Blood alcohol fusion. No family known. A quiet funeral. Me and another. Death by misadventure.
Mark Isherwood is a poet with a collection of verse in print in the United States called Lethe (Anaphora Press, 2011). He resides in London with his wife and three children. Photo: Paul Smyth.