THE CORRIDOR.

The ceramic floor tiles need bees waxing,
Or similar, to stop their surfaces scratching,
And pine needles dribbling down between cracks
Will never improve their general attraction.

The woman who moved all her objects from Bourne,
And her German hounds have been dragging their claws
Down the hallway and crusting the paving with spores
And other grit picked up and dripped from their paws.

And those old Victorian encaustic squares
Had been sullied enough by time’s wear and tare,
But Frenchmen and Londoners, parents and friends,
Still added their tread as they made for the stairs.

Though they’re better laid down than dug up for a sale
By unscrupulous builders, or worse who retail,
But if bankruptcy follows then some lucky fellow
Will probably carpet them over as stale.

Which I hope is the case for their safety through time,
As the bailiff has wakened and made up his mind,
And the floor in the hall and the rest of its kind
Will be repossessed until fortune walks by.