Wednesday 17 January 2018

17th January 2018

scattered snowfall
the cat craps in the kitchen
you're welcome, human


© Rachel Green 2018

my father's room
untouched since his death
still smells of his hand cream
twenty years later.
His old television;
black and white CRT,
his radiogram
and box of albums -- anthems
of the second world war.
Tins of dry tobacco,
another of silver farthings,
and one of thrupenny pieces
he'd saved when they went out of circulation.
My mother's plaster virgin,
the water from Lourdes long evaporated,
the black faux-fur coat
she used to wear to church
and the plastic Christmas tree she decorated
next to his pile of identical blue shirts
and identical grey slacks.
The feather matress is damp from disuse
my mother's rose wallpaper,
peeling.


© Rachel Green 2018

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