stuffing

With tv off ‘cos sitting here alone
I watch one show after another, relentlessly,
I pick up a book to read a poem.
But I’m unfocussed and invent
A whirlwind of a time now spent.

Tripping through the same old rooms, indulgent,
Nostalgic you might call it, I recreate from memory,
Fabricate from disconnected threads, what seems
A careless time – cooking for you, pouring tea,
When we both lived here - nothing of substance necessarily.

Of course, these conjured images provide
A kind of sentimental, nagging drama,
Emotional stuffing I should ultimately avoid.
Another here is stuffed yet cannot dream,
A toy monkey, munching a banana.