The bedroom carpet has a coat of hair,
Nice hair, quite thick, that’s mostly bombshell blonde,
And stands out well against the Turkey red,
Where it lies deepest underneath the chair
For all domestic guilt seemed to abscond
Last year, towards the end of May. The bed
Is hairy too and looks poor, sleazy
But I can look on it and feel quite easy.
The strong desire I once possessed, to clean,
Has gone the way of other lifetime habits
Like persevering to the bitter end
Of books which do not interest me at all.
The sun shines in upon the ironing:
A pile of damask, crumpled table cloths,
Easy to ignore,
And on a heap of clothes I need to mend,
And makes a rather nice interior scene.
And I think back to the days of children, small,
And umpteen cats, a dog and indoor rabbits,
And their endless currants on the kitchen floor,
When having more to do meant doing more.
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