A seeming half acre of rest spreads out

in Sofaworld, balm to the footsore,

a polite jungle of shapes, making the passage

of berthing time complacent where listless couples

check labels, passing between the Ambassador Suite

and the Grosvenor Sublime.

 

At the end of a day

Coffee tables nudge in

and footstools like crouching bears

 beef out the designated squares.

Waxy salesmen gaze at screens

like air controllers in fabric dreams.

 

Outside the unblinking window world

McDonalds and Toys R Us roseate

in a gloom of cars at the exit gate.

A salesman checks his watch and shrugs

near a freshly delivered pile of rugs,

 

and a lady has shrunk into a sofa

slight hand at peace on a bulbous arm,

her eyes are closed as his watch ticks on,

his black leather shoes crisply approach,

a tender reminder, a laugh and a smile with

no sales today and "this table is solid oak!"

 

Twenty years at the top of his game

South London accent, a heavyweight,

a job offer on hold in the motorhome trade,

deliveries and sales in Worthing

and a caravan in Wales.