Juanita Rey
Now That I Have My Own Place
I'm awkward in other's people's houses now.
It's not just where to sit, should I use a coaster.
I feel as if it's their taste I've blundered into,
good or bad, and I don't belong here.
My furniture has no ambition.
Theirs are replicas with ideas above their station.
My carpet is stained with good times.
Any laughs in the oriental weave beneath our feet
were surely chuckled by some child laborer in Malaysia.
Once a house meant nothing to me.
It was just a way to get to the people.
But there's more and more invitations these days
from friends of friends.
They live in hope of what they'd do
with real money.
If they saw my place,
their affectations would take a hit.
I live in an apartment which I could describe
in the same words as I would myself.
A mattress does for a bed.
One of my tables is a packing crate.
In my world, the best to be hoped for
is to come in useful.
On The Town
I’ve got energy I can afford to spend.
I walked home from work didn’t I?
So don’t be surprised by what I’m saying.
I’m on the move
not cast in bronze.
I’m young. I’m virile.
What do I want with a steady hand?
Or daintily crossed legs?
The night is still young.
It’s eight o’clock by my watch.
Or look in my eyes
if you really want to know
what time it is.
No way I’m going to stay in
and watch television.
Besides, my apartment smells
like my cocker spaniel
And my mother lives with me.
She reminds me of what
I’ll look like thirty years from now.
And who needs that.
So wait till I put on a dress
and those black pumps
and could we stop at an ATM –
I need to cash up.
Of course, if you’re offering to pay
then we can drive straight to the restaurant.
And then the club.
Yes, there’s definitely
a whole lot of portent
in this transaction.
And then…who knows.
I don’t
otherwise I wouldn’t be
saying this to me.
