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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’s 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...""
Wes Stephenson

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