Their belongings were buried side by side
In a shallow bureau drawer. There was her
Crocodile handbag, letters, a brooch,
All that was in the bedside cupboard
And a small green jar she’d had for flowers.

My father’s were in an envelope:
A khaki lanyard, crushed handkerchief,
Twelve cigarettes, a copying-pencil,
All he had on him when he was killed
Or all my mother wanted to keep.

I put them together seven years ago.
Now that we’ve moved , my wife and I,
To a house of our own, I’ve taken them out.
Until we can find another spare drawer
They’re packed in a cardboard box in the hall.

So this dead, middle-aged, middle-class man
Killed by a misfired shell, and his wife
Dead of cirrhosis, have left one son,
Aged nine, aged nineteen, aged twenty-six,
Who keeps things they used in a cardboard box.