What lives have been in these cupboards

A hundred years of knives and forks

Bits of string , spent wine corks,

Pocket knives and paper clips

Old lipstick to stick on lips,

 

Note pads , pens, pencils and rubbers,

All have rested in these cupboards,

Sitting in the darkness, waiting to be opened

Staring at the chink of light where the handles broken,

 

Then one day  it’s quiet space

no longer shuffled into place,

But heaved on to another home

Bumped and barged along the stones

 

Shovelled out into the bin

But oh what’s caused all this sin

Some one died ?, a broken home?

Or someone who just lived alone,

 

Now smelling of a lick of paint,

Previous memory now gone faint

New occupants of the cupboard

Note pads pencils and the rubber.