An abandoned hostess trolley to one side of a shin high
Smoked glass occasional table
Reflects a jostle of trinkets
Somethings to dust when the telly bible bores
Cloying, intrusive, wonky
The filthy mirror makes her want to tell lies about herself
Not sad skinny, bare bibs behind long hair
A modern day lady Godiva; all posh phony pony and pig pink skin
But behind her brush stroked browns jazz with orange
And cobweb greys give her away
Memories of other peoples’ mother’s houses,
When they are not home but she is there,
With them, alone
Working them up like a spider, leaking blood to build bone
Don’t give her a lecture on the romantics, things smell
wrong
If the room could talk, a caricatured voice would say
“Don’t interrupt the themes, however crazy it seems
Try to match the furniture and just subsume”
But she wouldn’t know,
To whom.
