This room smells like home,
The musty space is filled with trinkets
An Aladdin’s cave of the 21st century.
For when I walk through this door I feel safe
Cut off from the dour torment,
And sick exploitation of hollow fads.
She, with the dark bob and mad eyes,
Comes forth and barks
‘Put those handbags back when you’re done’
I had not even begun, to feel the leather
Or inspect the ageing fastenings, undone…
Boxes of jewelled history, dull and enchanting
White go-go boots, scuffed and slanting;
Towards a deep chest of scarves, paisley and lace,
Cravats and collars of an acquired taste.
I could make myself a pauper in this treasure cave
To the old film reels and sounds I am a slave.