Through The Keyhole (Poetry)

It’s where you hang your hat up —
a one-bed domicile
your refuge from the rat race
furnished hermit-style

with scant regard for comfort
a dearth of quirky clues
tidiness your watchword
squeaky as new shoes.

Every room is fitted
Spartanized as such
no sign of cute or chintzy
or woman-friendly touch —

empty yet revealing
the way you live alone
interior designers
erased all sense of home.