'This was Mr Bleaney's room. He stayed <br />The whole time he was at the Bodies, till <br />They moved him.' Flowered curtains, thin and frayed, <br />Fall to within five inches of the sill, <br /> <br />Whose window shows a strip of building land, <br />Tussocky, littered. 'Mr Bleaney took <br />My bit of garden properly in hand.' <br />Bed, upright chair, sixty-watt bulb, no hook <br /> <br />Behind the door, no room for books or bags - <br />'I'll take it.' So it happens that I lie <br />Where Mr Bleaney lay, and stub my fags <br />On the same saucer-souvenir, and try <br /> <br />Stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, to drown <br />The jabbering set he egged her on to buy. <br />I know his habits - what time he came down, <br />His preference for sauce to gravy, why <br /> <br />He kept on plugging at the four aways - <br />Likewise their yearly frame: the Frinton folk <br />Who put him up for summer holidays, <br />And Christmas at his sister's house in Stoke. <br /> <br />But if he stood and watched the frigid wind <br />Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed <br />Telling himself that this was home, and grinned, <br />And shivered, without shaking off the dread <br /> <br />That how we live measures our own nature, <br />And at his age having no more to show <br />Than one hired box should make him pretty sure <br />He warranted no better, I don't know.<br /><br />Philip Larkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mr-bleaney/
