Her end of terrace up for saleI lift old photos off the wall,leave three sun-faded patches whereno face looks down to judge or carewhich dresses, blouses, skirts I dropin bin bags for the hospice shopor, delicately cavalier,sort lipsticks, powders, underwear,chuck peep-toes, slingbacks then throw inhigh 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 drawerillicitly still waiting forthat starry night, that final flingtime larcenously failed to bring.
I lift them from the dark again,blow dust from card and cellophanewhere, love come early, love come late,desire and passion hibernatein nylon, ribbon, clouds of softblue tissue laid against the mothas, shadeless, naked bulbs expose,caught in the act, up on its toesand shoeless now, her…