A crash-bang from across the street
alerts me. Peering through the curtains,
I realise they are about to start,
so I have positioned myself to watch
the memories of us be taken apart,
pulled down and discarded.
It starts with the walls, the panels,
ignorant of the house’s recent history
of us. It does not care. Blow by blow,
the digger takes it all:
the door where you smoked,
the kitchen table where I watched you,
the lounge where we danced; all gone.
The large red bin is lowered
into your driveway at funeral pace,
and, as the remains of your house
are lowered gently into the skip,
I think of your tragic passing.
Cars are drifting back and forth;
they slow to get a better look—vultures.
What is it they want to see?
The workers are respectful and diligent.
They know what happened; they treat
the space accordingly. But piece by piece,
they take you away, and piece by piece,
I feel like I too can let you go.