Cardboard towers... leaning on the gyprock wall. Old receipts, curled up dry... down the hall. We bought the heavy timber. We bought the iron latch... to lock up half-used tins that never made a match. A pocket full of brass tokens... for turnstiles never crossed. Counting up the stock on hand. Dressing up the loss. The skull gets full of shelves... and the shelves are bowing down. Holding up the inventory... of the whole damned town. Lay the ledger on the timber. Step out... past the gate. Every single object takes an hour... just to justify its weight. Clear the room... to let the daylight strike the floor. Drop the heavy ring of keys... beside the door. When the clutter falls away... the breath is long and wide. Leaving only room... for you and me inside. Less to count. Less to keep. Fewer vigils... before sleep. Gave the extra table... to the fella down the track. Funny how an empty boot... unbends a tired back. Now the ceiling sits three metres higher... than before. No shadows in the corners. No clutter on the floor. The air between our shoulders... has settled into place. We cleared out half the house... and found each other’s face. One kettle on the trivet. One cup upon the pine. No debt to calculate. No boundary to align. The mind lets go... of what the hands refuse to hold. The afternoon turns pale... and the tea grows cold. Clear the room... to let the daylight strike the floor. Nothing left to reckon with. Nothing to restore. When the clutter falls away... the breath is long and wide. Leaving only room... for you and me inside. Just the hour. Just the friend. Peace at last. The end.
