My memory is
a tailored suit black cuff button rolled
flipped and wedged between dusty wainscot and wooden floor.
It is four heavy old pennies balanced and stacked
beneath the leg of a lopsided make-do desk.
And then I may take the middle of a punched paper hole
scuffed and left by the soul of a Brogue.
In perpetuity it will bear faintest traces
of the stale scent of slim cigars
emanating from a plastic-lined basket-work bin.
It will not be wiped either
by its one string slither of a shedding mop.
There will be a sound too –
a sound insistent as a stylophone;
like the thrum of Anglia cars through thin windows.
And oh yes, its colours will always be orange –
orange and bottle green.