The Empty Briefcase

The Empty Briefcase

He wakes at six, still wears the tie,

kisses her cheek, tells the same old lie.

“Busy day ahead,” he says with a grin,

but his eyes look tired, too thin.

The office is gone, his desk replaced,

by silence and streets he aimlessly paced.

Coffee in parks, lunch on a bench,

shame wrapped tight like a funeral trench.

He comes home at five, just like before,

hangs up his coat, walks through the door.

She talks of bills, of plans, of life,

he nods along—avoiding the knife.

Weeks go by, the lie grows deep,

he counts each hour, loses sleep.

That briefcase holds nothing,

but dread and despair,

a hollow shell—no papers there.

Then one grey morning, she wakes alone,

no footsteps, no keys, no ringing phone.

By the door sits the case, cold and still—

empty, like the space

he could no longer fill.

The news that night reported with dread,

Sacked office worker found in the river,

pronounced dead.

He finally could take no more pretence

R.I.P.