The Illusion Of Life

What these words don't

show is

the dirt, the damp, and

all the tiny little leaves and insects

that invariably end up on

your pretty handwoven serviettes

and designer wooden tables.

These words neglect

to inform you that

the same dust collects on

the books in their bookshelves too,

that the half-consumed packet

of Digestive biscuits has

its own expiration date,

and the peeled oranges will

attract houseflies, the

wastepaper basket be filled, the

kitchen sink dirtied, the toilet bowl

get stained sooner or later.

Instead they smile at you,

bathing in copious amounts

of sunlight - somehow you

can never make your

living room look as bright

and beautiful, even if

you stripped the windows

bare of curtains -

cocooned in a protective

land of milk and honey.

And we can only stare

and flip the pages, wishing we had

some share in that photographic

fantasy, that developed perfection,

stare and flip the pages,

separating soggy pieces of

cereal from milk that will

turn sour, and clutching at our

jars of honey with crawling ants

around their rims.