He slopes past

The cupboard each morning.

Plain, tedious, tired and worn,

she left it there.

Useful, she said,

But nowhere to put it.

 

He’s left with ownership

of foreign dust and scratch marks

now the reluctant home of un-played games.

Who killed Reverend Green?

How much for Euston?

He neither knows nor cares.

 

The ghost from another life

must be deleted but

the act of discarding resurrects the memories

so it stays, forlorn, incongruous, unloved.

He slopes past it each morning.

The ghost stares back at him.