I wasn’t told she’d die within the week,
instead, this would be her final illness,
the euphemist’s go-to (I’m guessing)
cushion between life’s steel toe-capped boot
and the bucket upturned
in which I found rust and a bundle of rags,
ants when I pulled back the petals
of the sun-bleached floral lino.

Bury me in a paper bag!
amid the mismatched crockery,
round-pin plugs and hoarded receipts,
I considered her oft-spoken words
when no one had heard
of a biodegradable coffin
like that mock-leather case,
hipster-chic and unwheeled
stacked full of jigsaws.

She was doing me a favour,
the lady from the retro shop,
and I thought how she never did
take a trolley, lugging
baggage, I used to say,
belonged in the dump.

But it was there in the kitchen
I found the wise monkeys,
and the art nouveau egg,
the paper napkins
in which they were wrapped
long-saved from seaside cafes.
She’d always said
they’d come in handy one day.

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