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Monday, 8 July 2013


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.

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