The shutter creaks open, peeled paint
flakes into a crude mask of a grimace
brows knitted together in some faint
puzzlement, at any rate a close enough likeness
Why should it take so long to clear cupboards
of diaries and dresses and shoes someone wore
of post-it scraps, scrawled numbers and words
stuck on the back of a wooden door
Why does it take so long to return?
Why do hands pause at the drawer?
before making a bent key finally turn
this last time and then no more, no more
the shutter creaks shut, the sound high and thin
the flakes of paint fall gently. Clods on coffins.