I close the door to his room
which had stayed propped open
throughout his illness, and behind it
find a few of his things.
His heavy brown shoes angled
as if he’s just taken them off,
jacket and cap hung on the peg,
walking stick against the wall.
Mechanically,
as a bulldozer collapses a site,
we’d removed from the wardrobe
stacks of folded clothes.
But here, behind the bedroom door,
I’ve stumbled across
this tiny installation of his life –
the space between the objects
protected like a small urban park.
