My Father’s Bedroom
A single bed and someone's
discarded wardrobe.
One suit hanging like
your life, your death.
The thick scent of your grease
And body odour I recall
familiar from my childhood.
The grime of your toil lingered
there on the pillow and the soiled
bedclothes of your dreams.
I went to the window and lifted
the blemished fragile curtain,
my breath fell with yours, stale
on the cold transparency.
I left with nothing, apart from
that thick scent I thought
was
lost until today.
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