Sue Ellis

Ophelia´s house in the seventies
had neither orange shag
nor sisal-entangled philodendron,
but an arresting and sumptuous
avocado-green lamp.

Its base,
a squat orb of hand-blown glass,
crouched upon sculptured gold feet,
and soaring above that,
a cylindrical velvet shade,
four feet tall
and decadent with trim.

It had been necessary
to fib about the price--
a secret extravagance
to offset austere white walls,
the clock´s incessant tick,
and her fragile, tireless hope.