https://youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_lDK3KfchGE_fIlPpTUg1DxfJinBqnmuMc&si=UEbxrO1tc8h7lq6F
Your clothes,
Those cotton jersey pull-ons pile
Upon the long closed Steinway,
While I sort them into T shirts, trousers, sweaters, socks,
Leaning over some great box
Of ‘baby wipes’ and ‘toilet roll’.
Where once was Chopin, King, John Field,
In garments now you are revealed,
Washed and dried, load after load,
And who you were, is, on the whole
Lost, except within the spaces,
In the grooves,
Of old LPs
And on the shiny silver faces
Of more recent, old CDs.
Even memory now moves
Within a childhood long before
You started down the happy road
Of fast becoming who you were.
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