51 and Crockery

I woke to exclamations of the trails the fish left,
indecently turned up, like trolley poles. I too,
much later, looked on astonished, at the long
umbilical threads reaching to the ornamental bridge,
uncut, a dull brown against the pearlescent reds.

The walls change colour, when I pull the makeshift
curtain-blanket behind the window handle,
like tucking a stray strand of hair behind an ear
and here crockery is whatever pattern you want it to be.

Everything they have brought in, white, ready
for their combined imaginations. Compared
to the landlords who reupholstered the chairs,
Zebra print, faux fur matted like pubic hair,
with Rosaries at the foot of each bed.