The Dweller

At first his presence disturbed me,
curled up in a corner,
at the bottom of the stairs.
His face,
a mess of unwashed hair,
framing those sad, tired eyes.
His body,
a malnourished support for a great, green coat,
stained from years of loyal service.
Once, overcome with pity, I pulled a note from my pocket,
and I held it out to him.
His eyes,
traveled from the note,
in my hand,
to my face,
and then closed.
He retreated further in to his corner.
The next day he was gone,
leaving nothing,
but a faint smell,
which, eventually, faded.