Should she have frosted windows
For them all or only in the salon?
Should some of them be curtained
Or dare she leave them free?

Would I pay to block out
The wonderful sunlight
Swinging moods of weather
To create anemic uniform light?

Should she have larger kitchen cupboards
To hide the cracked cups
Drunk from the knocks of life
And signs that people eat there?

My eyes feed daily on my crooked shelf
Weighed down by worthless jars and bottles
My toys from many parts of the world
No need to feel uncomfortable eating here

Blinding gleam of self-cleaning stove
Dish washers forlorn unless full with load
Plants banished as a possible source of dirt
No room for human mess and baggage

My kitchen is always strewn with dishes
In various states of dirtiness
Green leaves run joyfully wild
Vegetables poke through the rack unashamed

Her bathroom tiles must not show the dirt
Same goes for the sober shower curtain
All the pipes must be concealed
Must not leave water marks in the bath

Patterns of mould adorn my white walls
Coloured soaps lift the dirt and the soul
Non-matching towels flow from flimsy hooks
Inevitable rust begins to creep up my mirror

Ample carpenter-made bedroom cupboard
Sanctuary for past, present and future clothes
Demure wall paper and a carpet to collect the dust
Beds made for sinking all but nymphs

A corner in my office for sleepless nights
Clothes carelessly hung on the back of the door
Overflowing with the trappings of my life
Dust has plenty of choice of where to settle

Your neatly compartmentalized rooms
Where the light and heat are controlled
Or my tortuous, confused and all too human muddle
Where nothing falls automatically into place