Who dies in a place like this?

Coming in home 
from a longish trip, 
I found a body 

in my house. It was mine, 
since nobody else lives 
(or lived) there. I figure 

if it ever used to be anyone
else's, it was mine now and

I didn't want it. My responsibility
ends nowhere. In all my life,
it's been mine to deal with, 
like a cross or a burden of proof,
always. This fucking thing 

won't be doing that anymore, 
I guess. 
The scene
of the evidence 
keeps changing, since 

every room I go into 
the body is there. 

Sometimes 
it comes back to life, 
making it all the harder 
to explain. Stiff limbs 
limbering and it feeds 

itself automatically. 

It gets by, apparently, 
with a little help from my 
mind and heart, and 

I admit it's a little sad, now. 

I picture it still alive, 
whenever it's not. I just feel 

like that would be a happier 
way to look after it. Keep it 
going, and fit, in between 

rigor mortis bouts, where I 
assure you. 
Dragging that thing around 
is no joke. 

Even for a man my size, I 
could use a little cooperation 
from any body 
that expects 
to be in every room 
I go. 

Honestly, I 
don't even know why it wants
to.