Let’s get in the habit of burning all the clothes we’ve worn
whenever we had bad luck or got grim news. Your trousers
would go up very quickly, a man-made mix we’d suppose.
My long black redundancy coat, moth holes and hopefully
a few still-nibbling moths, could meet their ravaging match
on that cleansing pyre. As Liberty and flowery
as that shirt of yours may be, it will make quite a stink
when the flames come gingerly nosing in. What was it
she said on that fateful day you so carefully picked?
How someone might remember their last election socks
isn’t lost on me, though I’ve barely been able to touch, let alone
darn the Brexit pair I’d love to see curling in their own
cotton martyrdom of fire. I bet all those woolly tassels
will be aerials twisting as the last of your car crash scarf
winds its neck in. Then we can sit back with a snifter
by this clicking metal bin, almost all of it now ash, all
but some scraps of a pattern or a button, the odd
untouchable thing still hot, hot but somehow tantalising.