I come from my father’s house,
semi-detached, like him;
where nervous Beatles’ chords
stain the air like the coffee patterns
left in unwashed China mugs.
Where faded carpets blush
at dubious Woody Allen impressions
and old leather photo albums
keep the seventies staying alive.
Where grey hairs hide in a bedroom
where no-one is allowed,
and even though you leave the boiler alone,
sometimes, it suddenly explodes.

I come from my mother’s house,
self-sufficient, like her;
where green silk skirts hang
Brazilian flags from the ironing board,
where your nose crinkles
at the thick scent of oil paint,
and Columbo’s rough Chicago accent
is served hot with every Sunday dinner.
Where Smooth FM is sipped with
evening cups of tea (three sugars),
and the room can often go quiet,
as-if no-one has anything left to say.

I come from my house;
of average value, just like me.
Where Stanley Kubrick and Bob Dylan
watch me waste weekends in bed.
Where freshly ironed shadows with Radiohead
logos are abandoned to every corner,
and the curtains stay closed
like a dead fly’s wings.
Where cold winds howl like wolves
at the window,
waiting for me to leave.