Bags Of Next Door Poem by Kevin Eaglesfield

Fireworked.
Another family feeling the bang
While one just sees the glitter.
Course I'll put the bins out,
And burn the broken wardrobe,
And sort the bags out.
And look inside them.
Empty house and full garden.
That spoil heap is my neighbours now,
But it can't be washed by thick-armed women
To find the precious ore.
Every room's in one place.
Is the opposite of household house drop?
House loose?
I know in cards it's hit and bust.
Houses can be made of cards.
There's good stuff there.
New stuff, precious whole world stuff;
An ironing board huddled in astonishment
With a stunned hoover.
A bewildered fruit bowl you all walked past every day
Before the apples shrivelled.
Strong pans and baking trays
That were part of all together,
Years of fed again days
Diluting to nothing in the rain.
Bags of happy clothes and shiny belts,
And his unworn shoes and tennis racquets,
Lumped out in frustration and spite
Because they're here and he isn't.
Childrens' toys-they got to me.
Orphaned neon fluff and dross and plastic.
I suppose he'll buy them double now.