Clearance (Poetry)

A neighbour found the key and let them in —
those burly, over-cheerful, whistling men
shouting as they sweated, heaved and swore —
their shirt sleeves rolled, boots pounding to and fro
up and down steep, narrow, creaking stairs
while children, bold as squirrels, strained to peer
above the fence. A splattering of rain
announced the day mourned quietly and alone.

Through the door her few possessions came —
along the path and out into the street —
chairs and table, dresser, hatstand, bed
carpet rolls and pictures from her walls
all cobwebbed like the thin grey dust belonged
authenticated, made them treasure still
amidst the cardboard boxes, battered trunks
a clock that ticked defiant, measured loss.

Her furniture lined up along the road
queueing stiff-legged, patient for the van
as though their fate was written in the grain
a sense of not belonging dulled the wood
she’d polished as her mother had before —
a history of beeswax — every scratch
a memory forgotten. No one came
to claim them like poor strays — offer a home.

A Chinese figurine fell from a box
and landed in a flower bed, unseen
except by one small boy who rescued it
and tucked it in his jacket, wondering
if it was really stealing when he’d heard
the men refer to everything as “junk”—
their job to simply clear the house before
the boards went up — For Sale, Leasehold or Rent.