The second time around

she is more than just a woman.

She has memories, comparisons,

regrets, despairs and children.

She has books, glasses, crockery,

pots and pans that clutter the place

because I already have those things.

She has furniture that doesn’t fit,

clothes by the yard but no wardrobes,

duvets, pillows and bedside tables.

She has mementoes, knick-knacks,

vases that could fill a museum.

 

My stuff may be old but I like it.

I like what it is and where.

Much of her stuff is classier

but not my style.

We buy cabinets,

cupboards and hide it.

And we compromise,

drive to the dump and

lighten our lives of detritus,

of the fairly old and fairly useless

that we know we’d like to keep

but would never see again.

 

And now I see some books are missing.

I find them on her book case,

a music encyclopaedia.

She’s filed it next

to her History of Music.

They look good together.