Here's my attempt to 'praise' some household objects... In my typical fashion I let the thoughts get skewed. Wud luv to know immediate reactions and ideas for improvements. -Eileen
The Washing Machine
gurgles tabula rasa, with the countenance
of a house priest. Constantly forgiving
the dirt that accompanies living. Confessions
and hymns are washed words strung into lines.
Allow the gust to have its way, open lives
at the folds. In an effort of air everything is shown.
The Dust Bin
stands dutiful, locked outside to the night winds.
It is full of discard, wrapped black, odd as suspicion.
This body of a drum is beating, creeping into sleep,
grumbling against the door, interfering in the dream. Leave
the eyes open only at the slits, do not address the visiting figurine.
Lie cold as winter glass; stay calm as digits on the pillowside alarm.
faces the wall, like a symbol of peace. But nothing
knows submission like creased white pleats.
Good times have strict lines. Risk love on settings
too high: unbuttoned shirt, spread skirt, a bed sheet
over the edge. Limp yet waiting for spit and heat.