It rained when you left Harlow terrace;
and you paid someone to pack up your things,
carry them to the delivery van,
and put them in.

Teenagers; think;
you need them to man your chain stores
and do things like
load delivery vans with stale memories,
Chippendale and Tzu dynasty.

You watch them apprehensively as they carry out
your hinged goddess, brown and still and bound
in masking tape. They scribble 'for the guest room'
on her left breast
in black ball-point pen.

Take note, Misters Chadwick Bradley & Spitzer,
of the lines bargaining
their way across the mirror, and the mistress of younger years
who bruises a wineglasses' lush ellipse
purple with her lipstick.

Take note
of the scent of gambling men,
when car doors are opened.

Take note;
the man who drives the microchip
into it's affectionate hollow.

Take note
the girl who shuffles notes behind
a coffee-ringed counter, and pours champagne into canals
because she likes the sound it makes.