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To Whom It May Concern

The mail addressed to “Occupant”
Was scattered ‘cross the bed;
A bill or two and a coupon book
And none of them were read.

Solicitations were all he found
Recorded on his phone;
But that’s all right, that’s just his life,
Living all alone.

He recognized his neighbor’s car
Slowing at the drive;
And when he thought his neighbor waved
His spirits came alive.

But, his mistake, his neighbor’s hand
Worked only the control
To open doors of a cold garage;
He vanished in the hole.

At work, despite his talent
To complete each task he’d faced,
They constantly remind him
That he could be replaced.

And then, one lonely weekend,
Watching laughter in the park,
With sunshine all around him
His vision faded dark.

He stumbled home, took pen in hand,
Surrendered every yearn;
Then laughed at what he’s scribbled:
“To Whom it May Concern.”

If only there were someone
That felt for him concern,
The light of hope’s bright candle
Would through the dimness burn.

His fellow-workers all were shocked
At Monday morning’s news,
“He seemed okay the other day;
No sign he had the blues.”

They wished his note had left a clue
But, oh, what they could learn;
So much said in his unfinished note:
“To Whom it May Concern…”

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.

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