Fire

This rectangle of white does not belong

in the (gaudy) surround of the fireplace.

Words fill each buttonhole of her jacket

and line the slit of her pencil skirt,

pressed and pinstriped.

In these gaps, something is slipping;

tailored garments slowly fitting looser,

and a sort of carelessness

about the way she puts away

the shoes she wears to take out the bins

and dispose of the wastes of each week -

it’s not an ideal place for them, but they

will eventually be tidied away.

Perhaps when she gets another passionate

moment of cleaning in

or for when she has company.

There is only so much dirt

that she can put up with. You

fireplace, so whitely blocked up:

no soot to remove, no

intricate gaps to dust around, no

fuel for a cosy early evening -

just a few pairs of shoes to attempt a lived-in look.

It’s hopeless to imagine it will change.