An open verdict

I have a flat now, three rooms and a view,
a place, should your ex-wife think to enquire,
of paint tins, crazy paving, sprays of blue
convolvulus on sagged and laddered wire,
a bedroom lit all night by passing cars,
a kitchen diner, mug-rings, missing tiles,
a lounge with peacock feathers in a vase
to add, the landlord says, that touch of style,
and every night canned laughter through the walls,
sit-coms and game shows all come round again
to wake me in the small hours with applause
for thoughts I can’t afford to entertain.