Dark oak, gothic; furniture that has been mine for years.
She’ll bump into it, bruise, curse me. I know.
Taking the small axe from the wood pile I bring it into the house of me
And set about rendering the thing to splintered kindling.
We burn it now in our fire
And the smoke curls out from our nostrils and mouths
Steaming and hissing.
Old ghosts expelled,
Clinging curling clouds
Vapour disappearing into the clean blue air.