On a cracked saucer in my father's last abode,
two shirt buttons, a blue paperclip, three drawing pins,
a curl of brown thread and a crumpled bus ticket.
There was no last will and testament,
so I followed the finders-keepers rule,
and lifted the saucer closer to my angry eyes.
This was it. These items and a few tacky Bic razors,
all that remained of this man, all that he became
in those years after "the leaving".
I carried the saucer and contents to the window,
looked out into the dull Clapham day,
dropped a glance to the waste bin
and threw the lot away.
I strained my eyes looking over the rooftops
beyond the beyond to see as far as I could see,
looking for the assurance that I was right in my judgement
that he meant nothing to me.