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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