the wardrobe in the corner,
high, not quite to the ceiling.
and, one night, napoleonic,
a guardsman, there, crouched.
black boots to his chin. arms
wrapped around his knees.
brass buttons, gold braid, red tunic.
dust marks brushed the evening.
sabre, trapped. scabbard,
palmed and yellow skin.
he is speaking the french language
from another century, but not unkindly.
Later, we watched the moon landing. Seen it a thousand times since. It’s hard to distinguish the reality from the repeat. But stranger things only need to be seen once to believe.
Later again, we moved house. The old man took all the things from the house and put them in a van. On and on it went until the house was echo. The wardrobe lay on its back, the top for a while facing the street. A bootprint, very faintly.