Sunday- the day when you can be
Yourself- and not let be ruled –
A day to do what you wish to do
And not what others want you to do.

Sunday – the day one could read
Even the most insignificant ad
A day you need brush your teeth
Only when you want to eat.

I have a little duster, of soft
Synthetic bristles – to dust
The books, tables or the shelves
And an old torn shirt to swipe them clean.

There’s something about cleaning,
Dusting, tidying up and swiping.
A fleck of dust, a blotch of stain,
A crack that weren’t there before.

Today, I took on the showcase shelves
Souvenirs, scattered, of a life gone by.
A fan from China that my uncle brought
A medal my father earned for service with merit.
Glass flower vases, my mom’s valued prizes
Headless dolls my sister and I played with.
A bowl my granny used to fill with fruit,
Statuettes of dogs and such other stuff.

I clean them, dust them and keep them back,
Wondering what value they have.
What would they mean to my wife or son,
These worthless pieces, when I am gone.

In the stillness of days and nights
When I am gone, the winds would blow.
Specks of dust would settle and stain
White dustsheets would shroud my life.

Forlorn, forgotten, fritted away
My life, like a photo fading away
Where colours give way to meaningless grey.
Then one day-
Torn or crushed and swept away.