Clearance

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.