House Beautiful

The house displays its history with pride:
an outside loo arrayed with twirling spiders,
an inside bathroom hemmed by fragile walls
that fists could penetrate with ease,
a cellar, blotched artistically with damp,
a roof space inaccessible, except
to apes or youthful matchstick men.

He argues with himself but nothing moves,
his way of life, his inability to spend.
Perhaps a lick of paint, some carpet cleaner
here and there would do the trick?
He sits in bed with tea and Radio Four,
aware another day has come and gone
and faster than the one before.

The house awaits his slow tread on the stairs.
For the moment, he is master
but who cares?