He came in through the bathroom window,
cracked it with the peak of a knuckle
or the beak of a rock, a small
incision, enough to reach in
and open up a door
to crawl through.
He made a mess on the tiles, soap and
shampoo knocked from the sill,
toothbrush cup spilled and left
leaking a gunk of spittle.
He had a choice of treasure chests
on the landing, but I suppose
he chose the closest, and in our room
exposed the innards of draws and wardrobes,
pulling out tights like intestines
and throwing shirts and pants
aside, scattering sex debris across the floor.
He took the passports naturally, a handful
of jewellery and the present for Peter,
you can see where he sat
on the bed and unwrapped it,
shards of blue paper
dropped on the duvet,
I wonder if he smiled and said thanks
to the silence, just what I wanted, best Christmas ever.
He moved through our rooms to
quench his quick lust, filled his sack up
with gifts for the season: a laptop,
an Xbox, a TV, a watch,
for every item taken
a shock of space, an outline of dust.
He drank a beer in the kitchen, shifted
the seats for legs-up comfort and
ate a mince pie on the side, a gored
slice grinning on the table.
He wrote a note in the lounge, it says
sorry I did this. dan, and he placed it by
an open photo album, snaps from
ten years ago, and there's a
gap on the page, and the caption under the
blankness reads June ‘92, and I cannot
remember what the picture was of.
