My House


By Myron Lysenko

I come home
after a hard day’s work
and my house opens its doors to me.

My carpet runs up the hall
under my legs
and trips me into a chair
which holds me in its arms.

The stove makes me a cup of tea
while the answering machine
tells me all about its day.

The refrigerator stands in the corner
growling at the telephone
which sits purring in the fruit bowl.

The TV has spat the dummy again
and sits on the floor
facing the wall.

My windows close their eyes.
The CD player begins a serenade
and my curtains invite me to dance.

The light bulb is naked.
My living room breathes heavily.
The heater smoulders
and blows me warm kisses.

My mantelpiece strokes my forehead
and walls lead me to my bedroom
where I scare the clock
which had been sleeping on my bed again.

My laundry basket undresses me,
my bedroom door says goodnight
and my bed hugs me to sleep again
once more.

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