Last, she packed up her sewing machine
and the bright spools of thread,
the kaleidoscope of bobbins
that he’d re-organised by colour
and emotional connotation.

She’d already dismantled
the headless, limbless dummy,
with its expandable bosom
and retractable waist
that he’d found so alluring.

In the hall on the way out
she tweaked each
of the paintings askew,
bestowed a lipsticked kiss
on his mother’s photograph,

and drove away surrounded by boxes,
tooting her horn to the neighbours
and smiling at the rear-view mirror;
him in the doorway, arms full
of fly-less trousers.