wordswithpixwithwords

A dream, I’m home.

stumbling blind from room

to room

through the kitchen,

sprayed with a hint of

fried eggs and coffee

both burnt

and

I was right the milk

was

off.

In the front room

 

cushions slump

like depressed

teenagers watching

dust, disturbed

float like plankton

before settling

and decaying

on the floor

masking

the smell of

the new carpet.

The bathroom has a

micro-climate which is

killing the spider plant

a

fern already

lies

dead.

The smell of

toothpaste

and sandelwood

are masked

by

meadow fresh

crop-sprayed.

air freshner

do not use near a naked flame

The unused bedroom is the back of

a  charity shop,

all candlewick quilts

brass cats and

a Capodimonte

statue of a tramp

on a bench

old books,

aged pages dusted  by

Lily of the Valley talcum powder

Arthritic cracks split shoe leather

in the dark under

the bed

There are  traces of aftershave, old cigarettes

stale beer and the smell of sweat,

the sort

that thrives on

just being fucking

different

and

old trainers.

In unison,

I’m absorbed

by the bed

eyes tight shut

I can

see.