This Bed

Smooth mahogany, slightly scratched,
Constructed in 1922,
By grumpy Grandad Broadbent,
A man by nature deeply attached
To neatness. And I think it's true
To say, a man who wouldn't relent
From striving to achieve it, so that
If he were to come back from the dead
And see it now: a little dusty,
Clothes disheveled, and the cat
Curled up asleep beside my head,
And the dog, smelling rather musty,
At my feet,
And a very crumpled bottom sheet,
And the remains of things to eat,
The table beside sporting cold cups of tea,
And my clothes cast off upon the floor,
And some Biro marks by children drawn,
He might feel cross. But we
Can't arrange our lives anymore
To suit the dead than we can scorn
Entirely their influence.

So when my back clicks back to place,
I'll tidy up and tuck it in
And live where the confluence
Of his ideas and mine meet in a thin
Stream until, within a short space
Of time, I'll revert to type again.