A hodgepodge carton of books and soft toys -
a whale, a dolphin, teddies, the Gruffalo
tucked away in a higher shelf because
you stopped needing, reading them, years ago
when you were five or six. Children outgrow
all their stuff quicker than mothers. I pause
the decluttering, though I know, I know
everything must go, boys are only boys
for a finite time. Yet I cannot bring
myself to throw away a single thing.
Some childhood remains in these residues
in soft toys for which you’ve no further use,
old and matted, beaded eyes coming loose;
in well-thumbed pages you’ve finished reading.