by the weight of rubbish and years of clutter.
In here you will find everything
that is of no real use, of no real purpose.
In this house he hoards
things to make sense of himself.
Milk bottles stand on windowsill, filled with dead flowers,
papers years old stacked against the wall,
page three girl Susan, nineteen, likes swimming,
she must be at least thirty-eight by now,
still smiles, blu-tacked on cracking plaster.
Balls of string, boxes of wires, broken televisions, at least six or seven
jostle for a place amongst the jumble,
make no sound or complaint about the mess only an
elegant silence when asked any questions.
This company is preferable to any other.