Home is second-hand

A Poem

By Pippa Browning

It is an antique
that much is obvious
dark wood, majestic, used
organised mess from manageable
brilliance to ignored wonder
spirals of colour coordinated consciousness
there’s a locked drawer and
an unimaginable lock
that seems to have misplaced a key
the idea of filing cabinets
shouldn’t be this traumatic
but, I think if I touched it
I would splinter
and would too be filed away with
the others who tried to marvel before
but, now its skeleton haunts me
and I find myself humming
the particularly sad song
of the forgotten filing cabinet