Clearance
- Aug 13, 2025
- 1 min read
The holy books attest
To the good in him.
The dust belies.
The files of bills
The windowsills of desiccated flies
The boxes of coins
The dusty, crusty carpets
The miasma of motes
The quinces rotting on the tree.
The time I saw the shape
Of his hand on her cheek
Bruising her soft skin.
He knew it was wrong
But could not decode his own feelings.
The shit encrusted rugs
The smell of urine in the weft
The endless bundles of incontinence pads
The list of visits from the carers
The leaves turning light green
Before becoming brown.
The double-bass in the lounge
Facing in to the corner.
The descent of the back stairs to the garden.
Steep and dangerous.
Pictures rescued from charity shops or skips.
Now I know that what annoyed me most in him
is what annoys me most in myself.
His clearance ends.
Mine begins.
