White Elephant

The clock is slow, it goes
five seconds every hour,
the second hand, red taper,
flickers like an insect wing,
strains over each division
like a 20th hour labour.

Fairy lights strung, lazy
mustache, up behind
the face, glow blue through
the numerals, the time:
ten minutes past midnight.

The wall it hangs on
juts out, Victorian flue
sealed up, leaning monolithic
over the room, like the moon;
lamp lit one side, the other
dark and dusty. The shelf
is a balcony of memorabilia;

a plastic T-rex menacing
a plush toy frog, its stubby tail
whipped up cretaceously
to bullseye the statuesque
OK sign of a metallic hand;
an adjustable mannequin
with sky-embracing arms
looks up in wooden suplication;

a birthday card by a shisha
with beauty and the beast
reclining in a parlour on
the glossy printed cover;
a crumpled tissue; a bottle
of painkillers; a stacked deck.

An 80s baseball card is stuck
to the dappled white wall above.
The floor is strewn with
bedding and coated wires,
spilt tobacco, stuck gum.
The sofas wear it well,
lounging softly, dilapidated,

torn but kind, sometime beds.
A broken guitar, left
knocking in the tangled gutter
behind the television, twangs
sometimes, sings with five strings,
but now lies sleepy and dumb.

Above the TV set the shelf
seats plates, photos, phones,
aerial, camera, box, bauble,
and a beer crate with cut
out eyes, green Grolsch troll,
wears a look of soggy dismay.

Suspended from the yellow vault
of the ceiling, a blown light fitting,
cradled in a stringy ribcage
and blazoned with two
soft chivalric hearts.

Brown wire, burnt bulb,
and a wicker case that beats
its silent pendulum blues
as the second hand jerks,
groaning static loss.