For Sale

(after Lowell)
 

A draughty shoebox up on blocks,
Yorkshire Tea and terrier prints,
lived in just a year–
my dad’s caravan at Sand Le Mer
was on the market the month he died.
Leaky, salt-lashed, anonymous,
Beatles and brass band LPs
warping in the yearlong must,
a copy of Emmanuelle
and framed royalties from Radio Three.
His second divorce beached him here
and he couldn’t support his own weight,
and his dog gnawed the fur
from its paws for a year
and had to be given away.