That day I answered the door to a man with a clipboard. I expected to say I wasn’t interested in whatever it was he might be selling, though if it were some worthy cause… In the event it turned out it was me, the worthy, or possibly unworthy, cause.
Who is Sylvia, What is She?
In my current account
Is the sad residue
Of my lost cousin’s house
Where she was found
Dead and alone
Forgotten so much
That when at my door
With his clipboard
A stranger stood, asked
Who I was and if I had
A cousin called Sylvia
I said , no. And then said
Yes.
I arranged her funeral
Couldn’t attend
Covid lockdown ’21
But found someone
Who knew her. She
Attended, so Sylvia
Was in proper company
At the last, at least
I remember only a quiet girl
A cast in her eye
Who seemed slow
Abandoned by my uncle
Who they said was a bad lot
He’d burned through my father’s
Paltry inheritance once divorced
From Sylvia’ mother
Then disappeared
Like Sylvia I had
A cast in my eye
Mine, though was
Corrected. She died alone
Her lonely consolation
Wine. She was found
Half off her sofa
After some days
I’ve had her house
Cleared and sold
At auction. My
Father’s inheritance
Has fallen to my brother
And myself, too late
To repair the damage
Others suffered
But welcome as money
Always is, a windfall
Unexpected yet
Damaged in its fall
Like Sylvia
Whose little all
Is taken from her
In exchange for my
Remembering
I had a cousin
And her name was
Sylvia.