Vacuum

I always move the sofa now

Expunging those grey lines

That no longer exist

No need now for lame

Protestations, feigning lumbago so

I could 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

But 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 a companionless
Brogue, pining for its mate behind

An enervated curtain…

And a little dust