Poems about furniture

The Furniture Dinosaur

Upstairs – in number 5
it’s swishing like a crocodile.

It’s tapping out a beat
like a drummer with a stool.

The furniture dinosaur knows how to move.

It’s doing the rumba –
sashaying numbers
that would make you blush
if you could see them groove.

The furniture dinosaur knows how to move.

It’s flexing it’s sections of oak paneled thigh,
raking it’s bar table – aluminum
clavicle over linoleum tiles.

The furniture dinosaur
scrapes shelves
of stacked hearts –

only comes together
when it’s dark

I’d like to go up there
and shake a case, jut my pelvis,
shimmy and shake –

but times like these
it’s far too risky.
The furniture dinosaur

can’t be predicted-

cracks glass.

The Table of Longing

The table of longing was like two lovers –
separate but vital –
to each others continuing survival.

It’s two sets of wooden legs
ended in a set of four
perfectly sculpted oaken pegs.

The table of longing smelt of all the years
they’d ever eaten: butterscotch pudding,
hot fruit with vanilla coulis.

It tasted of the wine
occasionally spilt, the skin of the hands
brushed like silk.

The table of longing was the sound of
all furniture ever moved. A distant sea
in the ear of a grand piano.

It was a tree uprooted
and black soil stirred. A car moaning
at the foot of a hill.

The table of longing was lined paper
written verse, varnished leaves
bronzed wood. It was three panels

of a painted screen,
sheets to hide it’s naked dreams:
a desire to be folded – rest limbs.

The table of longing was a pair of wings.
Gold hinges,
glowed in the dark.