In a red carpeted room
This is the setting of our fantasy house.

We have blankets, we have sheets.
The sky that covers us both.
Mismatched teacups, two toothbrushes.
The toothpaste tube squeezing out time.

Your luggage stands sentinel,
A mute watchdog, a silent three headed mutt
Snarling at the clock.

Sometimes in the day,
I clutch my dolly trying to forget
The hurt moon face,
Of the clockwork man,
Guilt stricken I pretend,
Nothing like this has happened:

Awaiting your returning, to be announced by the door,
Substitute bread-winner, my own bacon gift-bringer.

Yet, there�s no food in the larder,
Such is imagination�s barter
Sweets for tea, chocolate for supper,
Ice-cream cold and sweet
Liquorice steak and potato crisps.

The door opens and you step in
I bare my soul in an affected grin
�How�s your day my sweet moppet?�
And you will preen, in your own little dream
Man of the house, man of my dreams.

Then I will wrap round you and close the door
We bundle together like the laundry on the floor.
We twist and tangle into bed,
Two odd socks, indeterminate.

One pink and one yellow.
We are playing at being married now
Echoing patterns of my parents,
Echoing patterns of your past.

But soon the past catches up again,
The dog snaps shut his serrated teeth.
It is time to go home now.
Such a note of finality.

The bed is empty now but warm
A testament to our play,
But the warmth will fade
And soon forget our day.