Dispossession by Diana

The house is taciturn.

Secrets have settled under dust.

You left in the middle of December

leaving a mug of tea, a half read

magazine and washing up

shipwrecked in the sink.

The innards of the house lie in

piles outside the front door like

discarded offal.  The ghost of a

Brahms sonata sighs around the

dismembered piano.  Yellow crime tape

flaps in the wind like a Tibetan prayer flag.

 

I wish for a light at the window,

a steaming kettle,

singing from the bathroom

and a reason for your leaving.