lies a pink skip with traffic cones
guarding as if to highlight
its transience. It resides
next to a red berry tree where birds sing.
The house is empty, the skip's open tomb
whispers to me about sadness and doom:
in its bowels are slippers
as withered as daffodils in May,
they will not be worn again.
There's a plethora of black plastic bags
and a mirror broken on impact,
the lost owner never again to stare
at a drink-ravaged face...etched with despair.