Her end of terrace up for sale
I lift old photos off the wall,
leave three sun-faded patches where
no face looks down to judge or care
which dresses, blouses, skirts I drop
in bin bags for the hospice shop
or, delicately cavalier,
sort lipsticks, powders, underwear,
chuck peep-toes, slingbacks then throw in
high heels for shoebank, boots for bin,
until, boxed up, price-tagged, risqué,
I find, unopened, tucked away,
sheer stockings, slips, pink camisole,
a Charvet scarf, Kashmiri stole,
knocked off, long hidden in this drawer
illicitly still waiting for
that starry night, that final fling
time larcenously failed to bring.
I lift them from the dark again,
blow dust from card and cellophane
where, love come early, love come late,
desire and passion hibernate
in nylon, ribbon, clouds of soft
blue tissue laid against the moth
as, shadeless, naked bulbs expose,
caught in the act, up on its toes
and shoeless now, her startled soul
drawn to the light, its glass peephole,
unsure, should someone ring the bell,
if I might rush to kiss and tell
or, keeping mum for one night more,
lie low and double lock the door.
