The walls and doors watch closely,
As the chair legs stretch and walk.
There’s quite a bit of motion,
And the fridge is prone to talk.
But it’s silly and repetitive,
And causes lights to dim.
Whatever does the orange think
Is happening to him?
Sitting in a dusty bowl,
A mixed up, mouldy bunch.
Of mandarins and apples
And bananas with a hunch.
And still the fridge is droning on
As I sit sensibly.
Chatting to the table
As I drink a cup of tea.
© Copyright Philip Barton April 4, 2005 – All rights reserved
