I get the feeling
a Shirley Bassey fan has died.
His records are standing in a row
like flowers lined up at a doorway,
ill-fitting running tops on rails
hanging like abandoned dog leads
in a barely used hallway.
I wonder if this teapot is his;
the one with the black handle, chipped spout,
fingerprints that forgot how to press
the green button on a phone.

© Carl Burkitt 2022