Composed on a Futon

by Martin McGann

Paper clouds,
Stuck onto a fake blue paint sky,
Centred with some ornate Victorian mould,
Overly fancy today (but still lush),
Skirting board at the edge,
What is that on a ceiling,
Moving down on a semi-luminous moon and stars,
Green like sea emeralds,
Adorning the wall still blue,
A line of wood,
And then sunshine yellow – paint and fake,
Two cupboards seemingly thin,
But actually deep like CS Lewis but not quite,
A paper surround filled with squirrels that almost move if stared at,
The mirror waving like a computer icon immortally,
Sitting on a hard white covered futon,
Composing,
Cushions full of cuddle,
Swinging on a desk’s chair,
By one light there is a wonderfully shaped vase,
It is yellow – brighter than the walls,
It is lovely but I want to throw it and see it smash,
By your ‘Kurt’ain (self-styled) – Nevermind,
There is one in midnight blue as well,
Small wooden desk by the window and bookcase, shelf,
Fish who move electronically, cleaned out once a year or whenever,
Simplicity lives forever in these,
A bed that matches with childish covers on,
Its greatest occupant a bear named ‘Pooch’,
Secrets hidden in unrepeatable places,
A Carpet- darker blue than the ceiling,
Still perfect in its effect,
There are posters – of advice and song,
They half tell the story of a life,
Postcards and an inflatable chair,
‘Grunge is dead’ – a printout,
This is a room of uncomplexity,
I am surprisingly at home,
I love this room, space, place and wish it was mine.