Florrie
Florrie strokes the flowery setee,
firmly, smoothing out non-existent creases,
then gently, thinking: These people aren´t half well off,
cretonne like this sets you back hundreds!
She tugs at the curtains,
opening them and pulling them again.
-Mine were so heavy, not the fabric, mind,
but heavy to pull, had to ask the girl for help.
Who are they? Entertaining constantly,
reading, singing.
Wine and cheese!
Still I recognise... nearly recognise...
like a nightmare it is, at home, not at home,
wandering through familiar rooms
but closely looking so unfamiliar
and where´s the family, by the way -
No children?
Shan´t complain, though, used to be a lot worse,
will never forgive the miserable frozen lot,
wimps weary of the draught,
sacrificed their view, couldn´t be bothered
about ships sailing on rooftops
hid the finest window,
looked into a cheap reproduction instead.
Lovely thick carpet on the stairs,
piano in the study, quite so,
but what is this?
Florrie opens a cabinet door,
a typewriter? Half a typewriter,
cords and leads, a telephone of some sort?
This is a nightmare, must stay a little longer
until I can leave these people to whatever they´re up to.
I will tolerate only good spirits, you hear?
The best butter, fresh eggs,
long lasting intentions, no giving up,
I´m telling you - in my house
every single one survived!
