ANOTHER DAY IN SOFAWORLD
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.