Home Still Poem by Odey Patrick

When I arrived, the reception, cold,
was but one of the many surprises.
The Lawn was strange, father's
name no longer the topiary, and
the domestic faces, too,
save the handy maid. I found
no joy in the new blue sofas
much over-did, trying to fit in.
And the hanging aesthetic
of a surreal blue moon there where,
I remember, a family bust should be.
The rooms were stringently neat
redolent of a sick ward,
the scent, some vulgar freshness,
like the disappointment of night flowers.

How can I exaggerate when
humour withers on the tongue?
The act is to not look unimpressed
yet spare all the sarcasm of
perfunctory compliments but
crack a conceding smile.

The case is a family treason, yet
no cause for great alarm. No
art is a complete waste, no act
devoid of reasonable conviction.

I remember the native wit, though,
of Musa, and K-Mah,
the beautic sprawl of father's name
abbreviated on the flowers.
Now I long for the brown couch,
with more wool than wood,
the simple but refreshing smell
of Drummer on the wall in a box.
The act is to not look unimpressed
the trick is to smile along,
and not adumbrate another's exotic taste,
For it is Home still.