Tom hobbles around his house, wearing one

Shoe, no reason to stop or keep going.

The house is dark with no light from the sun.

Outside, the snow is harshly blowing.

He turns to photographs hung on old nails,

Stopping at a beautiful golden frame:

A smiling woman, wearing a white veil.

He moves on, murmuring a name.

A notepad by the phone is coated with dust,

The pen ink dried up. No one calls.

Tom suddenly gasps, hand over his heart and just

Begins to fall.

Tom died today, wearing one shoe, old and alone.

Tom died today, but with no friends at all, how long ‘til that will be known?