Poetry / Keeping Dust

In a townhouse in New York,
full pop cans lay, gathering dust
that falls down through the air,
air that shouldn't have dust, and it
recieves frowns from the face of a man
with nothing to say to the cans.
In uptown there's a cab waiting,
but this is his house, his dust, his cans,
and his brown leather chair,
neat, unused, so he'll stay.
He dare not sit on the chair,
nor drink the pop on the counter.
They will not be as they used to,
and they are so well preserved.
If a spot - he looks up in horror,
to see everything still perfect,
if somewhat old and neglected.
He does not understand, or maybe
he forgot, that this pop he keeps
on his unused counters, it's life.
If he'd just - but of course he won't.
That risk is not something
he could trust; he'd rather stand,
thirsty, tired, in the middle of a room,
slowly rusting away, unused.
He can't bring himself to give up
all the dust in order to drink
and live, exchanging liquid for memory.
But he must.