Of clearing her father’s house in Enfield,
she would only stand to say,
“Have you ever tried to sell a baby grand?
Or even given one away?”
After forever it was all that was left.
Guess this world has little need
for a baby grand beneath
a paper lampshade, on the quiet parquet.
The kitchen of her father’s house doubled as a study;
scraps and tumbler, scrambled egg.
A crust of cut-outs from the papers,
bull clipped and annotated:
Prompts for future conversation.
A screwdriver, a light bulb,
spoon of Sheffield steel.
A mug of tea. A gum of teal.
Bin bag, clumsy in the corner.
She wonders where it’s from.
Tells them where it’s going to.
The stillness in an inch of china in a sink of silted water.
nickreeves 
Been there.
Long time, no see. I hope you are ok.
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Thank you, Magick.
Just taking a breather.
That was nice to read.
x
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Like the ordinary melancholy in this one Nick, also glad to see you around again
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Thanks, Kim 🙂
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Touched, Nick, a place
I recognize, on the thresold
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This really hit home, as I’m going through it now.
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All love & luck, Liz. x
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Thanks, Nick.
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