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Expect nothing, you said
and nothing is what arrived this morning in the first post.
Nothing. Enclosed in a box ten inches by ten by ten all wrapped up in used brown paper and salvaged string.
Expect nothing, you said Not a penny if you marry that spender of misfortunes that good for nothing, nothing.
I opened the box expecting nothing and nothing is what I found – besides perhaps a faint echo of your last laugh let out.
And the smell of camphor, old hats and dusty attics, and yes – being right about him – that distinct whiff of righteousness. |
Acknowledgement of a borrowed opening. This poem owes its opening two words to Alice Walker’s ‘Expect Nothing’. I promise to pay them back one day.
