Friday, May 15, 2015

Conversation with Inanimate Objects


Rose's water bowl was sending a message.
Lying half off the step,
Its chrome sheen, caught the late afternoon sun,
Bade me consider its potential as a still life.

It was probably a little abused,
Not cleaned as often as the weather dictates.
Was I looking at some kind of herald
That denounced the absurdity of going forward? 

Where have I mislaid my worldviews?
Surely there should be an ache, a worry,
A message that troubles me,
Or at least pronounces my attitude insufferable?

So much influx feeds my anxiety.
Yet here I stand attempting to puzzle out the
Distorted meaning of an old wooden couch that is
Comfortably disinterested in the possibility of displacement.

It is not especially attractive,
And unlike the impervious chrome bowl,
I suspect that the couch’s accelerating rate of decay
Will soon lead to an announcement that its time has come.

Yet it seems that frazzled creation does not agree.
This second-hand purchase should never had been rescued.
At best it represents ten minutes of poor kindling.
No guest has ever sprawled content in its embrace.

The insolence of the bowl and its grand dream
Started to bother me.
I didn’t care about your dust or distortions bowl,
You are unfit for human conversation... take that!!













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