Inside sits vinyl records
their roundness unknown.
Football programmes stack up
and hardback books weigh

down the wardrobe. A tie
drips itself. A couple of blankets
I once knew are folded
at the bottom. The creak in

the hinge still crawls out
when you open the door.
This wardrobe holds shadows
I have long forgotten.

The house might float away
if it was ever removed.
On top is a cardboard box,
contents unseen for a decennium.

When I was younger I thought
about moving in. But was scared
of how deep it went down

dropping into the unknown.

Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. He is an aspiring writer who is encouraged by his best friend, his collie, Jasper.