Airbnb by Leo Cullen
Published 03/07/2016 | 02:30
When the summer's sun shines on our kitchen
We throw open the patio double-doors
And go outside and decamp in the garden
And leave the house to the visitors.
They taxi indoors and put to the test
The breadcrumb situation underneath the table;
He, puffing his proprietorial red breast,
She, a-bustle in her housewifely apron;
Not a note out of either, total incommunicado,
Me enquiring: is there something wrong?
He beading me: no, we like your little bungalow;
Me making an offer: it's yours for a song.