The Thing

A poem from last year

Nightmare. It’s only a nightmare.

The-there’s a thing.

An odious object sitting at the foot of my bed.

An article so astronomical I can’t see behind it.

The terrifying tool sits still, while I lie quaking under the covers.

Immobile, the item seems innocuous enough.

But could I trust it?

The artefact had appeared quite abruptly, and I definitely hadn’t put it there.

Did you?

Did you dump this dubious device on my duvet?

Is it a gift?

Is this great gadget a glorious gift?

Now this is interesting.

What is this curious commodity so covered in cotton cloth?

This extremely endearing entity that draws me closer as I crawl across to the contrivance.

I opened it to find a glossy glass gizmo.

With polished planes and cool curves,

The instrument has intricacies etched on every exterior.

The insides of the implement were equally elaborate with

Serpentine strokes scratched on the surface.

This breath-taking body, manufactured of manual muscle work, how could I ever use this utensil?

I can’t.

It’s too phenomenal a form to be flawed.

This piece of work, perfect from every perspective, I plan to preserve perpetually.

So storing the stupendous stuff, I go back to sleep.

I wake to warm water, sprinkled on my idle eyes.

Fragmented figures flash from the previous night.

Dashing to the drawer I find that forged form was a

REFRIGERATOR?!