A litterbin of the past, one dented tartan tin <br />Holds a key to a something no-one quite remembers: <br />Buttons of Sunday jacket, <br />Saturday's dance dress - <br />There is also a red pencil, Braemar in golden letters, <br />Stamped on its side. <br /> <br />Buttons, key, pencil, <br />Have never grown fatter or thinner. <br /> <br />The buttons have lost their owners, but do not mourn them; <br />In the manner of buttons they are quite hard, quite brazen. <br /> <br />One button shone from my brother's blazer pocket. <br />Over the thunderous organ, his long, white fingers <br />Pressing keys, releasing hymns from silence, <br />The button reflecting the brass from altar and aisle. <br />The other is incognito. <br /> <br />The key may have opened amazement's door <br />To a china can-can dancer's jerky steps. <br /> <br />The pencil stamped Braemar in golden letters <br />Ran a red light one night in father's conscience; <br />Scribbled a passionate letter to a lover. <br /> <br />Leftovers, when we're dead, outlive us all.<br /><br />sheena blackhall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/leftovers-6/
