Love Poem for the InanimateTiffany Midge
It just so happens the cup that longs to be a goblet pales next to the spoon dreaming another life as a shovel— the spoon who thinks if only the fork didn’t carp so much he might have been a sled. From the dim hall the mirror covets the TV— Oh, to be so valorized, so worshipped. While from the half-bath under the stairs a sink dares to imagine a receptacle of oceans. Solitude seems a perfect kingdom for a chair distanced from its table, a digital clock separated from its morning bell. What is a pair of mismatched socks that aspire for a bouquet of wool, but settle instead for the odd argyle out of step with its mate? The teacups doubt their saucers’ fidelity just as the sugar bowl complains to the cream, tries to recall how they arrived to this place. What tokens can be offered, what assurances exchanged? It just so happens that nothing is immune to its own vanity. All yearn, hope or design for something better. Even quartz and oak reach for their grand roles, yet in the end remain attached, devoted. Even cotton, even porcelain, remain proud of their humble estates.
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