Furniture (Poem)

There’s nothing left in this house but the furniture –
Just a flight of stairs leading up to unmade beds and windows
with curtains drawn, to keep out the light

Just a buy-now-pay-next-year sofa
And the best wooden table and chairs you could afford

No fights, no feelings,
no familiar scent of home in the kitchen –
Just cleaning supplies under the sink,
a cold boiler and a refrigerator full of food
That could never make a meal

There’s nothing left in this house but the furniture,
All too real, too tangible
Leaving no room for meaning or memories

Just walls lined with photographs of strangers you don’t recognise
Shelves full of books from literary greats to buy-before-we-pulp bookshop bargains
And that stern man in an oil painting from the car boot

A dozen or so candles sat on windowsills
And a couple of bedside lamps that stopped lighting

Just that old car in the garage you never fixed up
Surrounded by tins of spare paint, rollers and trays
Just the bags of old clothes you meant to give away, and
Boxes of things you’d surely need some day

Nothing left in this house but the furniture,
Just a collection of things from a previous life

No evidence of living or breathing,
or thinking or feeling –
You can’t take it with you,
But hell, we all try

© 2010, Luke Roberts, All Rights Reserved.