It took them just five days to put
his home up for sale, still fresh from his death
he would have turned in his grave
had he not been cremated.
His comfy brown armchair traces of Brylcream
still visible was first in the skip, then
three boxes of Readers' Digest and a
stamp collection, already judged of no value.
A layered collage of life, now discarded,
deemed unfit even for jumble, just waiting,
not for the bus and the pint
but for the long road out to landfill.
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