In Dickens’ House

In the back bedroom where Mary slipped from him
“in such a calm and gentle sleep” he hardly
knew she’d gone, the writing table (on which
he chivvied Nell with his pen to her immortal
rest) sleeps also, upright on all fours.

From his bedroom, I can hear the grumbling vans
in Doughty Street. Beyond his embattled garden,
beyond the ivy shivering on the bricks,
a panel of chimney pots assembles like smug reviewers.

In the downstairs hall, his reluctant clock (that would not
always chime for him) now tolls for me.
Going out, I glimpse my inglorious face in his mirror.