The Chest

Matching curtains, mirrors and bathtubs,

Fancy fittings and modular kitchen,

Marbled floors and murals adorn.

At last, a new house,

That is now “owned”,

Move over, landlord,

The bulk of my wages,

Your pockets promptly filled,

As the banker now abides,

To drink from my cup of labour,

In equated monthly instalments.

The big screen TV sits anew,

Taking over the void left by the old,

Unhesitatingly discarded,

Along with possessions that at one time,

Enriched our lives, however anonymously,

Yet, for the keen observer,

Inconspicuously in the corner, stands,

The oak chest with chipped corners,

Rusty handles and paled out varnish.

For it holds,

Not just creaky drawers,

But a chest of treasures,

Of memories,

That once housed my prized possessions,

Ragged doll, trinkets of jewellery,

My first bottle of perfume,

Jumbled assortments, like my thoughts,

The fragrance still lingers,

In the chest.