It's not your bed til you haven't slept in it.
I can't watch a TV that's never been slapped or punched for something that wasn't its fault.
Can't break bread with knives and plates that hide in cabinets and have a nice day out once a year.
I can't mark my book place with anything less than an empty blister pack, or the second hand from the broken grandfather clock.

Why buy books new? From orderly, slick, book shops?
When I could have scrawled phone numbers and dedications, extra, for free,
To Freddie, Love Gran, Christmas 1973.
I couldn't bear a new book. Its perfection. Its No-oneness.

Sit me down on your tatty sofa.
Give me coffee in an old family mug.
Pick me up in a used car, with a radio that responds only to you.
I'll use the house key that I alone can work, because there's a trick to it.