as a museum
it was easier than clearing it
but as
Health and Safety officials
were not happy, only one
at a time, perhaps two together,
were admitted
by appointment only
there were photos of course
and framed copies
of the better-known poems
some ageing better than others
a scratchy recording
a rather musty smell
a few years after I died
I went back to look
but the house and
its predominantly green writing room
and blue glass which
the sun peered dustily through
with the hideous 1930s fireplace
painted crudely over in 1960s taste in white
looked nothing to do with me
nor the photos
nor the poems
so I abandoned what I’d thought
a rather cute idea of
being a friendly ghost
in my own museum
it just hadn’t come together
as a poem should
or a life
but I left the laughter and the joy
for those who could hear it
(For Wendy, a concrete image)