The wallpapered back of a
near empty kitchen closet
counting tinned meals passed
with stenciled patterns and
defunct cutlery.
Tubs of pickle, jam jars, bottles
of cooking fat or vinegar,
dried sauces strangling screw tops
and flour bags scrunched closed
years since home made efforts.
Flaking skirting bordering
grids of celebrated smiles, worn sofas,
the table banned from the paw prints
of many cursed, kicked but loved.
Soft steps leaking through ceiling
from around the snooker table’s lawn,
young intrigue turned age
avoiding the absence of things to say.