Nest Egg
That last week, dealers fooled by the bungalow’s
shabby exterior were dazzled by its contents like
explorer’s finding the treasures of a pharaoh’s tomb.
Objects that belonged in another house, bought
when her parents realised filling a Victorian villa
was like colonising a new country. Father had sat on
the Georgian settee whilst biding for it. Mother had
made up at the Hollywood dressing table. A come
down for furniture and family after his death, crammed
into the council bungalow, where sturdy oak legs
tripped up feet and protruding tables bruised knees.
Since mother’s death, daughter had regarded the place
as a furnished let, half expecting her parents to have their
effects sent onto them. Now dealers soon recovered
themselves to haggle over rose wood chest of drawers
and ebony chairs. As each deal was struck, the rigmarole
of manoeuvring the pieces through narrow doors and halls.
Leaving daughter with a pile of notes feeling as if she had
sold her siblings. But each piece took a secret away with it.
The solid kidney shaped sideboard had become a speakeasy
for mother’s daily stash of Mateus Rose. Mahogany book
cases had looked down on her various cottage industries
from Thursday night sex with the lodger to tarot card readings.
Money placed into the greasy palms of occasional tables. 
On the final night, daughter dismembered the saggy three
piece suite and the two spent single beds. Dragging their
remains outside to be carted away like plague victims.
That last morning, she heaved clothes in bin bags and
books in boxes into the back of a friend’s van, sprang up
Into the passenger seat clasping a new savings book
containing £750 and the vehicle sped off like a getaway car.

Fiona Sinclair
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be pleased to hear them.

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