I’m shifting the furniture of my mind,
breaking the bed that offers no respite,
getting rid of the mouldy couch the god sleeps on,
I’m throwing the tellie that’s stuck on reruns.
& tonight, when the neighbours are within themselves,
I’ll set fire to all the dusty bookshelves.
Soon I’ll be left with just
white walls & bleached tiles.
. Like a vacant womb, a tabula rasa.
First published as Removal in Windmills, Issue 8, November 2011