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On the grand tour, you expected me to envy
the miraculously seamless
specially commissioned carpet.
But I was green for its lush lawn-like pile,
its springy marshmallow mossiness.
I wanted to feel it squeeze between my toes,
could hardly keep my shoes on.

In the study I was unstirred
by the way you’d fitted so much
into cleverly conjured space
between kitchen and garage.
My eyes shone emerald instead
for the fresh minty Apple MacBook,
matching mouse and microfibre cleaning block.

Upstairs, bile rising, I grew greener,
not jealous of garish gold fitments
or ornate tub on plush plinth,
but feeling queasy
at Connemara marble-effect jacuzzi
and the thought of you starkers,
steeped in stale Stilton.