Our house, 

a room

with a bed, 

and a table, desk, ironing board, 

the TV hidden in the fridge

while the trains vibrate 

under the floor,

and the damp, leaking pipes

leave shadows on the pale walls...

the rain falls steadily, heavily

outside against our only window,

as a boy stumbles into fat pants

toward the light of the kitchen,

and the glow of the candles

while the wireless crackles

radio plays, music, news,

randomly,

things we've never heard, or can't remember

and tells us news of the world

outside our only window,

somewhere,

where it doesn't rain,

and a man sings opera 

in a hot air balloon.