Envied by the gods

One last walk through my childhood house
before the key are posted to the sales agent.  
The home is bare, stripped back to its shell,  
I push open the back door that still sticks  
when the weather turns damp,
camera clicks of old furniture appear  
just for a second, as I enter each room.
 
The squeal of a Belfast sink bathtime  
bubbles on the brush chrome drainer
as I walk through the small kitchen,
avoiding the mangle of wash day Wednesday
 
Into the dining room of fake beams,
with lights that looked like melting candles,
a mahogony table and a plate ladened Welsh dresser,
French polished when damp washing left
behind the shape of a pair of underpants.
 
A patterened axminster carpet matched  
the heavy blue velvet curtains I couldn't touch
and the gold three piece suit that had  
a place for us all when families sat together.
I stumble here greeted by my own ghost,
 
sat at my dads feet as close to the TV  
as I could get without a warning from mum.
The back of my hand gently moving  
across the tassles of a table lamp,
cigarette smoke funnelled from dads ashtray
accelerated by the heat of the bulb
up through the nicotine stained shade,
the canopy streched over a steel frame  
with a small folded sticker Max 100w.
 
The lamp was deep red with gold willow pattern,
my hand followed the story of the seperated  
lovers only allowed to meet once a year
when the stars aligned,
my finger crossing their bridge each night,
tiredness making the figures move.  
Behind me, life read library books  
and talked about the troubles of the day
with bags of boiled sweets and treats
on a Saturday when blurred eyes  
swore the saw the star crossed lovers
turn their heads to watch us.