Sorted (responses welcome)
I started sorting through my kitchen drawer -
bills, burned-out light-bulb, year-old pizza
moth-eaten tea-towels, trash. Within a minute
my whole life was spread out across the floor:
beer bottles, kettle, teabag sweepings, broken
can-opener. Bin it, bin it, bin it.
I moved around my house on a mission,
wasted the wardrobe into rag and bone,
hammered the coffee-table to matchwood,
tore through address books with a blood red pen,
crossing out bastards; picking up the phone,
made all the calls I'd dreamed of. It was good.
The neighbours think I'm a raving nutter -
in my yard at midnight, having a ball -
creating from this futile, vast, unsteady
babel-tower of useless crap and clutter
a last judgement, a Viking funeral.
A skip, a petrol can; that's it. I'm ready.