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Array
(
[sid] => 160186
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => A Room Without Dreams.
[time] => 2010-05-28 06:45:40
[hometext] => my parents were married forty years until my father died but in all the years of my childhood they seemed like strangers in the same house. this is a snapshot of that life.
[bodytext] => This house is like all the others, Bland in their regimented row. And here I am again standing outside the bay windows, The frosty hand of winter chill on my cheeks, The air dank with coal smoke and traffic fumes. Inside my father is attacking the hot coals of the open fire, With a long brass poker thrusting deep into it's heart, Half lifting and beating the coals in a fever of frustration. At last, the job done, he sinks into the sagging armchair, It's headrest and arms smudged grey from too much brylcream And yellow from the smoke of his favourite briar. On the sofa opposite my mother sits, bird like and silent, Hands clasped in her lap, her eyes flat and uninterested In this room of miserable shadows left hanging by the flex and forty watt bulb. And all the while she stares at my father with eyes unfocused And a face left piched and sad by the passing years. In this room without TV or radio, the turning of the pages of my fathers newspaper Is sharp and shocking but welcome none the less. He checks the time with his pocket watch Then stands with his back to the fire, crosses himself, crosses the room, Opens then slams the door shut and my mother stirs, crouching before the warming fire. Then returns to her seat and falls asleep in this sterile room without dreams. [comments] => 4 [counter] => 281 [topic] => 21 [informant] => cashfan1 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 19 [ratings] => 4 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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