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written by: Ricky Hawthorne



I always move the sofa now,
To expunge those grey lines
That no longer exist
Now, I never proffer lame
Protestations, feigning arthritis to
Nip out for a pint in the
Local snug

Without fail now, I lift and drop the
Dormant bed, judiciously rock the
Welsh dresser aside, careful not to
Exorcise its ghosts, to clean
What’s already clean

Now, I never find
A forsaken hair grip sleeping
In the armchair or a
Discarded earring lying
Breathless at the foot of the fridge

Just an old companion-less
Brogue, pining for its mate behind
An enervated curtain…

And a little dust

Ricky Hawthorne

Ricky Hawthorne

MAY 2019 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com
Short listed for the Bridport Poetry Prize 2015
Graduate of Warwick University
Triple honors in Literature, Theater and Film
Ricky Hawthorne

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