This poem is for anyone who used to be house-proud but is now simply proud (and tired).

Living RoomThe Living Room

It’s mine.
A latte for the eyes,
Mellow Mocha melts into Soft Truffle,
Melts into Cream Expression,
Denying I worked for it.
Shoes are forbidden in this temple,
But toes can bathe like Egyptian Queens,
I dip in – and the armchair dissolves me away.

It’s ours.
An electric guitar, band-less but loved, changes the room’s tune,
Fires up its rhythm (not the only fantasy played here),
A medley of takeaways perfume the air,
Tonight’s TV dinner or tomorrow’s cold fare?
A smatter of beer stains shaped like Japan,
Or maybe a map to our future.

It’s yours.
A single trail of raisins betrays your latest mission,
To the shop behind the sofa or the spaceship on the chair,
The carpet jungle hides a plastic menagerie,
I discover their teeth with my feet.
Armoured vehicles patrol the TV as I search for diplomatic channels.
Your territory is marked in fingerprints that get higher by the day…..

© Emma Cooke 2013

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