The Executor

Rapunzel Wizard

I am scouring through your papers,
cleaning you out of existence.
Sifting, adrenaline pummelling
like a muck raking tabloid hack,
ready with a quick start and quicker explanation,
but you will never hobble through the study door.

I failed to recall I was executor;
the will was done and dusted long ago.
In your pride, my Maths O level
qualified me. The only job it got.

As I put your affairs in order
I find no affairs, no secrets, nothing
that will lead to thriller writer's adventures,
uncovering clues to Nazi gold;
just a not very current, current account,
a deposit account that silted up.

And yes, the thrill of possible guilty secrets
is sweeping boredom into the corner,
where it snarls like a kicked stray
festering with cobwebs of bank statements.

You landed at Anzio, liberated Rome,
but no looted Luger in your locked drawer.
Forcing my way into its vacuum
I find 300 British Gas shares you bought
and didn't know what to do with.
Your war stories I imbibed in childhood
diminish like a fading chord.

In the monotony of Ewell's laundered suburbs,
washed so often they've dulled to grey,
I feel the oppression that led me to flee.

Post war, you worked in town planning.
I find no corruption, no gerrymandering,
no list of names, nor hush money.
And in the New Town homes for heroes,
tour-guide-proud you showed me,
pupated into Basildon, as devoid of value
as your low denomination premium bonds.

Tidying the mess of life to sterility,
I find I am executing your will,
and your memory.