In one of Belfast’s stranger manifestations
as a post-conflict city, I’m watching the ex-commander
wheeling his trolley around IKEA, his partner
screaming at him from across the floor.
The fuchsia curtains are only twenty-five quid
and they’d match the bed linens perfectly
He struggles to U-turn his trolley, knocking into
a stack of boxed Räcka, a curtain/rod combination,
a black or white steel product requiring assembly.
His brows furrow as he manoeuvres with the weight
of lampshades, kitchen utensils, and bathroom
accessories in block complimenting colours.
I don’t know why this is strange, is this
not exactly what our peace agreement promised:
normalisation, investment, commercialisation,
and cheap mass-produced furniture?
Sunday afternoons become bargain hunting
and the pursuit of coherent interior design.