The Garden (4)
Why, you ask, when the water settles on the walls,
And mould springs up either way.
The little buggers will only reappear
On the shower curtain
Or along the skirting board.
What’s the point tidying up the mess
When it will keep growing back?
That I can no longer see
As I pull my bags through the living room,
Over the mess of clothes and pizza boxes
That surround the television –
That is foremost in my head,
As I struggle out of the front door,
My suitcase taking another chip away from the paintwork –
That I think of
As I pile the entirety of my possessions
Into the boot of my father’s car
While I drive away.