Naughty Corners

A silly little poem written in jest, but i rather like it:

So often bare and bereft,

corners pose awkward questions,

if left empty to gather dust.

They are awkward to clean,

but shall i let them get dirty,

until cobwebs can be seen.

Or fill them all in,

with furniture and art,

a soft reading chair here,

corner library there.

Potted plants where there is light,

a shrine to Buddha,

in that dark spot next to the fireplace.

No bare and bereft corners here.

Do I interpret a deeper meaning,

am i filling in holes?

Surely just a dislike of corners?

Perhaps just in case, 

i should take myself,

to the naughty step on the stairs.

(KC March 2011)