Kitty Sullivan


I revisited your house; blossoming red-brick and tulips.
You were absent; the carpet that once bled sixties-textiles
had been ripped out, upholstered with walnut beige.

A man pencilling a yellow shirt answered the door.
His fingers were as fat as Malcolm's, who decades ago
assembled greenhouses on the other side of the fence.

Smoking indoors, he told me this was the last check-in.
He said your scent had already crumbled into plastic-sacks;
the Morris-replica wallpaper, replaced with egg-shell satin paint.

I inspected the re-vamped bathroom draping awkwardly
over a gong-less-staircase. The mirror gleaming like a magpie's chest
made it impossible to imagine your whirled eyes smoking back at me.

For the last time I checked out, pulled the stripped-pine door to,
affixed your plumed broach to my vintage corduroy jacket,
to collect a stray tulip-bulb aborted on the lawn, I left, for good.

Kitty Sullivan is a professional photographer. She currently lives in London


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