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Poetry

Closing the front door gently behind me because I know how much slamming the door bothered him, I entered his living room and took stock of everything

This one was inspired by someone close.

Supermarket-brand well-used reading glasses
On a well-preserved copy of ‘A Day at the Races’.
And tape-measured rows of tarnished horse brasses
Hang by picture frames bursting with grandchildren’s faces.

On the coffee table, a seventies ashtray
Sits with neatly-packed rows of each day’s medications.
And gaudy baubles from foreign holidays
Sit with expensive snow globes from later staycations

On a faded brown dresser, aged and austere, 
A three by two printed business card reads: 
“Are you recently bereaved? Lost someone dear?
Call for a quote for your house clearance needs.”

I don’t usually write serious or sentimental poetry; it doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t like writing it, because I think writing poetry should be fun, and I don’t like reading it unless it was written by my hero Poe. This one was inspired by someone close.

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