Anna Couani #189 the ideal room

that room lives on

with the sunlight streaming

through the lace curtain

onto the sewing machine

onto grandma’s lap

onto her soft breasts

while she peddles the treadle

whilst I bounce on the narrow single bed

that droops in the middle

fingering the old threadbare measuring tape

standing on the threadbare carpet

opening metal tins

the little tin of pins

the tin with elastic

the tin with bobbins

old cigarette tins

rifling through the cotton reels

in the small drawers on each side

of the sewing machine

they seemed to have so little

and everything was old

I remember the things

the sun shone on

I remember bare boards

and grainy dust

but still managed to retrieve

after all these years

the old china biscuit barrel

with a faded floral design

a lid that my mother got resilvered

long after we could all afford a better one

in that room I only remember