A friend took my football memorabilia 

to a better place, another the CDs I never play, 

and the charity shop have the books I’ve read, 

plus, the ones I hadn’t got to yet.

 

A decorator finished all my jobs, the garden’s

paved with a plastic lawn, the car's been

replaced with my Oyster account, and the

shopping arrives daily in small amounts.

 

I’ve digitalised every photograph I own, my

paperwork mountain no longer grows, 

even my finances sit in proper shape,

and on Netflix, I’m box set up to date.

 

What’s the point? Where am I bound?

I’ve been robbed of my colour and sound.