finding no safe to crack

with

a sharp machete

i swing

it through the musty

rooms

and clear

out what's left behind.

i bring many bags and boxes

in which

to throw

things away, 

i savagely empty my father's

lair,

his home

of thirty odd years.

there's little there

of sentimental value.

photos perhaps,

a painting on the wall,

some letters

and yet, so much means

so little.

what would i do with thirty

nine coffee mugs,

or twelve

pairs of shoes,

various coats and hats?

there's nothing hidden,

no money tucked

away

in the pages of books,

no safe to crack,

no jewels.