Inanimate, inarticulate

 

The fridge door always shuts
before I replace the milk on its shelf.
The door of the microwave
subtly closes as I put in the pie
that needs reheating.
Ditto the oven door; it hates
staying open; prefers slamming shut
when I have a tray of biscuits
ready to go inside, and they
delight in sliding floorwards. 

The toast in the toaster pops up
while I’m cleaning my teeth,
and goes cold;
the jug boils and cools again
while I’m doing something
urgent in another room. 

A slurp of coffee always skulks
unnoticed while I write, read,
eat my lunch, then when
unthinking-lifted slops
on bench, table, computer. 

The radio ignores my
first attempt to switch it on then
breaks my eardrums when, on the
second push of its button, it
decides to blast its fullest
all percussion brass and
shrieking piccolo chord out into
an unsuspecting sitting room.

Of course
the bath will never overflow from
pouring taps forgot;
the gas will always go 
on the first push of the switch -
it would never think of
blowing the house up;
the heater left on
at bedtime will not, of course,
make us wake at 2 am and think
the house is now about to burst into flames. 

Inanimate, inarticulate, the
things that live around us
can’t be suspected of
desiring anything but our best. 

Our attitude is the problem:
walk faster between the bench and the fridge,
slip the plate or tray into the microwave
or the oven, at speed;
don’t clean your teeth,
don’t go to another room;
fake a creepy Uriah Heep
humility, avoid a hint of
insincerity or
sycophantic slighting or
hypocritical wickedness.   

Trust the voiceless,
those without breath,
those without consciousness,
those without any capacity to
intend bedevilment.