I went to our home at five thirty,
as arranged.
It stank of 'not my house,' and
my things were shyly poking from behind
your things.

Your mum, I guess,
had made a huge, huge collage
of pictures: of nine years of you, your family, our son,
but not me.

I was leaking out the cracks in the doors and walls.
My son would see nothing of me.
I gathered what I could and left.