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.