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Love Poem for the Inanimate

Tiffany 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.

Tiffany Midge

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