soft grumbles

What’s in a shoebox but a shoe.
Once black as a moonless night
shined wet that it sparkled in the light.
The other pair’s been gone for years
and all that’s left are memories
of a best forgotten past.

What’s in the ref but an egg
sitting there for ages.
It could have been a lovely fowl by now
tossed in the oven with thyme.
A delectable dinner it would have made
for a party of five or even eight.

It used to be full of fruits,
fresh vegetables, meat, dairy
and bottles of ice cold beer.
Unplugged, nothing remains
but the stench of rotten food
now gone.

What’s on the shelf but a shirt,
torn, dusty and made brittle by time.
And yes, a bonnet for his four year old
who will never get to grow old.

What’s in the cookie jar but salt.
Drenched with rain from a leaking roof,
it can be brine to wash the wounds
of this man’s heart and remind him
he has nothing else
for they are all gone.

What is left of this man
badly beaten and suffering the pangs
of hunger and want?
All that is left is a brain
to remember how it was
and what could have been.