SnapGlove

The walls are nearly buttbare,
white excepting blu-tack stains,
and boxes rally in the hall.
Felt tip signposts tell us
where clothes are stashed, where
dvds, writing, ping pong bats
have been flung in (and where
Transformers toys, flipped into car form,
have been lovingly swaddled
in bubble wrap blisters).
The van arrives tomorrow
to strip out the mess
we created, sorted once, gave up, got used to,
leaving a hospitalesque space.
The only witness on the wall
is Tim Curry, leering out
from a Rocky Horror calendar,
surgical glove tugged in teeth.
Half horny predator,
half mother.