The Wardrobe

Wardrobe

The little white tin is an
oval cameo.
A hole inside it,
it clasps what it holds
catches and keeps it.

An old lady shakily
picks it up
strokes it, makes it shiny.
It's her secret.
She keeps within -

The wardrobe dark
where the clothes hang
Forever waiting.

The smell of melted mothballs
coating the coats,
the skirts.
the shoes that lie below.

She drops it
A tinkly clang
She turns her head
swiftly, guiltily.

The empty hallway
reflects the black room.

She picks up the tin
opens it
inside
is an ear lobe
as green and ghastly
as the old man she killed.