A mirror so old I can barely see my face.
Swaggering in the corner, the Grandfather clock
Has forgotten its story, its tick, and its tock.
Curious little ornaments polished, on display,
Slapped hands if you touch “they are not for play”
Frippery and doilies, plastic fruit in a bowl,
A fire never on because she “can’t afford the coal”.
Tapestry sewing box too tidy to have been used.
The folded paper in the dust bin, she doesn’t like the news.
An ugly painting of a woman, who’s as miserable as sin,
She always says she hates it as she sips her evening gin.
The slippers under the table quite forget about her feet
Because that’s where they belong, so peculiarly neat.
Nothing serves a purpose or seems remotely real.
Nothing can be touched, not designed to feel.
It’s all artificial, an appearance, a showcase,
Pretence for this old lady in this cold, tired place.
No comments:
Post a Comment