Come The Revolution
The house is in ferment,
stairs rising up,
the whoop of the hoover
looting the carpet
and the bloodless dusters
hanging like heads
from the clothes-horse. Sun
flays the table
with white blades of light;
knives and forks
rattle the top drawer.
In the bathroom,
taps run hot and cold,
white tiles
sweat in a frenzy.
And look, look
at the towels, barricades,
and the steam, how
even the toothpaste is
tricolor.