My hands are speckled as a sparrows egg
And my clothes are ruined, white up one leg,
But I can now peer through our old doorframe
Without your memory. The signs of shame;
An ecstatic hand smudged against the paint,
The headboard holes and your perfumes rough taint,
All removed and regret exculpated,
Your legacy has been renovated.
So I step in, close the door and sink down
To the floor elated where I hated
Your scuffs and your candlewax, your final frown
Is extinguished in the bright unshaded
Room, my breath is pure as a saint dying,
Then come letters with more of your lies in.

Christopher Woodall

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/murphy-s-law-3/