The sink takes the painful trickle,

The floor takes the weary tap.

The ceiling, the burden of being stared.

The walls almost feel criminal of having to box and guard you.


The furniture feels the creak on its old hinges ,

The doors and windows wish to be treated gently.

The utensils are sample agony aunts,

The crockery, victims of buttery absent minded fingers.


The clothesline does not mind being roasted.

Fighting gravity is no mean job!

The portico died long ago,

The veranda doubles up for her.


The humanity of inanimate life,

The helplessness of muteness,

The taken-for-granted feeling,

The saga of the mundane.




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