Room speak
Rooms speak to you
when turned around.
They say;
smoothing matted hair,
settling in their comfy chair,
‘ Ah, this is how I like to be,
those years bolt upright, were not me’.
Bedrooms comment, ‘those clothes,
the ones you pile, never sort,
they’ve got the moth.’
They tut they cough,
‘not if not but - you’re just a slut.’
Rooms are honest though they pry.
You catch them opening the door.
You hear their judgements and they sigh,
the dust they blow becomes a cloud,
and sleeping’s rough they wheeze so loud.
Enough’s enough one day I said
sliding from my messy bed,
got bin bags, cleanser, polish, duster,
found all the strength that I could muster.
Shifted rugs, vacuumed bugs,
shunted, lugged those heavy thugs
of furniture. Great stomping stuff,
I puff.
Then I’m pleased, all’s clean,
cleaner than it’s ever been.
This room looks positively slender,
and it sings in voice quite tender,
a soothing spring refrain
immensely roomy for my brain.