Live Encounters Poetry & Writing April 2026
The Clean Out, poems by Justin Lowe.
The Clean Out
for Donald
I.
I sit here alone
in the front room
listening
so, this is
how a home dies
becomes the dust of a dwelling
I can
hear it settling
while outside
the story continues
of that lone duckling
on the verge
the mailman
muttering to his mail
like a rumour passed on
II.
a rose
I once planted
taps at the window
pink as his face
pressed to the glass
laughing at us
bunched
around that pine
and copper bar
there are
footprints in the shag
I cannot account for
and he
the last of them –
father, brother, friend of my best days
still talking
about coming home
to die
before
heaving a great sigh
at the thought of such distances
III.
there is no tomorrow
merely an idea
we formed in the night
and carried forward
it is to now
what price is to value
he can no longer
put a number to it
tomorrow as an aggregate
of prior experience
he has
walked away from the deal
overly abstract, overly complex
IV.
he had committed no crime
other than the one
his sagging body was committing on his jackdaw mind
funny to the end
his eyes avid to the end
as his daughter spooned him ice cream to the end
and he asked her huskily –
that little wombat squeal in his old throat-
who would have thought, my darling,
when I cradled that pink little thing
that all these years later
she would be spooning her dear pa
ice cream on his death bed?
now, get off your fat arse, my dear,
and go change the channel
and the nurses promptly
wheel in the trolley
on which the needle glistens
blue-flecked and mischievous as his eyes
that wry wink of Antipodean light
triumphant at getting the better of such a man
V.
at 2pm, Black Friday,
the day before Valentine’s
he left us without a bang or a whimper
the first and last of his kind
On falling asleep during my sunset mix up with the Beastie Boys
I am on loan like all the sleepers
to the author of this poem
I am not captive as such
nor, I hope, are you
but he
(and I can only assume it is a ‘he’)
dictates every line with a breezy gesture
(his embellishment, not mine)
he feeds me the gaps between prepositions
like any great genius their crumbs
nothing seems to daunt him
bar the prospect of my leaving
the door sits wide open
the dogs are chained
I can smell cooking somewhere
but no dinner ever arrives
indeed, nothing arrives
but the next line of this poem
I believe I can hear
someone punching a wall somewhere
ivy whispers like the village spinster
creeping up the walls
there is good wine in the cellar
an autumn sky of damask
he lays a hand on my shoulder
and explains he cannot hold a pen
his old voice crackles
like the black crepe on every mirror
© Justin Lowe
Justin Lowe lives on unceded Gundangurra land in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney where for 18 years he edited international poetry blog, Bluepepper. His ninth collection, “San Luis”, was released through Puncher&Wattmann in October 2024. He has a tenth collection as well as a book of short stories, essays and memoirs currently with publishers.