I was always on orders to keep her
From stealing things in our house.
But I dallied too long in the shower
And heard her cajoling a load outside.
I ran in my towel to see her
Drop her grandfather's accordian
Into her barely-operable car.
I stepped between her and the driver's door
And issued all manner of uncredible threats:
"If you care about your family ...",
"If you want to see your sister again ...",
"This time we will call the cops."
To which she flashed a bemused smile,
Said "it's mine, dude", and left with only
A frisson of reaction, to what was, for me,
The designated diplomat, a drive-by shooting.
She knew I was only following orders
That were corrupt from the top-down.
She wasn't particularly interested
In people saving her life, why should she
Turn to the good for me?
Yet I was the one who cleared out
Her storage unit when she died:
The emotion she couldn't show in life
Shone in every lamp
And parcel of furniture
We had to pay to give away.
And now the accordian is mine.
It plays only ghosts.
