Heirlooms

The dead have gathered
in the yard to sell stuff.
They lay themselves out
on my patio tables like tatty
old suitcases, threadbare
and losing their shape.
Mouths gape like old boots,
tongues hanging out.
Some are so rotten
I can't tell one from another.
Today there are shovels on offer.
A broken watch – hands missing.
Two sets of green fingers.
I know these clothes, this coat
that stinks of tobacco, mothballs.
Notes of lime and lemon zest.
I try it on for size
and to my surprise it fits,
but wasps have built nests
in the pockets. This close
I can smell sweat on the collar
and booze on the breath
of the cloth. Feel the rise
and fall of the creatures
that sleep inside the lining.