Home alone

When I was young

I was too embarrassed

to invite friends home,

thinking they would see

the old furniture, the

worn carpet, the odd

books, the unappealing

prints, the washing

on the old clothes line,

the unwashed dishes

in the coldwater sink.

It was only later in life

that I came to realise

everyone was embarrassed

in the same way, and,

more importantly, no one

noticed the flaws in your home.

In the same way other

people’s lives seem glamorous

exciting, sophisticated,

easy, planned, while your own

seems the reverse.

Only later do you see

that some people envy

you your life, failing

or ignoring, the bits

of it you find embarrassing.

If I had understood

these things much earlier

my social life as a child

would have been much richer.


I have never

had, in a long life

of creating ideas,

and things, a serious

review of any of it. No

serious consideration

of what was attempted,

what were the problems,

what was achieved.

But then you don’t get that

for your life itself

I suppose,