I’ve always found it fascinating how much you can learn about people from what they have in their house. The books they have, the pictures on the walls, what they have on display, and even the colour of the carpet all tell you something about the person or people who own that house, flat, or room.
I wrote this poem while housesitting for some friends. I was sitting in bed, looking around at the room and was struck by the thought that it was almost like a piece of art that the owners of the house had put together about their life. I wasn’t sure if I was part of the picture or an aberration in it.
This room is full of memories
But none of them are mine
I didn’t write this letter
And I didn’t drink this wine
This room could tell a story
But I wouldn’t be the star
It’s not my name inside the books
This isn’t my guitar
This room’s a private painting
But I think I’ve smudged the paint
When the artists see the mess I’ve made
I’m sure they’re going to faint