Ghost Furniture

Hautboys, occasional tables,

chipped chippendale

imitations - out of place,

out of doors, on the pavement,

outside Harrison’s Butchers -

as was - before Ocado

slaughtered them.

Torn vinyl, seventies sofas

two-and-a-half-piece suites,

not so much sprung

as ham-strung -

not even an old ha’penny

hidden down the back,

since it’s post-decimal

upholstery.

There’s always a cooker,

electric, grill-over-oven,

under the hob,

traces of grease around the

half-turned knobs

all set at different

temperatures.

Radiograms, hat stands

faux elephant’s foot

with no umbrellas

and no purpose -

no more than the

nests of tables

empty of their

ashtray nestlings.

Joe’s in the doorway

thumbs in his waistcoat

like that man on the telly;

it’ll be time to move

it all inside soon.

On the wireless

inside someone sings

about a brilliant mind.