The Spoon, the Bull, and the Pickaxe

If you're installing a sink, and you have to do this to get the pipes to connect, try another way. That way, those coming after you won't curse your unknown name.

If you’re installing a sink, and you have to do this to get the pipes to connect, try another way. That way, those coming after you won’t curse your unknown name.

A small metal spoon slipped silently,
Submerged beneath the suds,
Into the dark abyss of the insinkerator,
Preventing progress
Of waste: from a garlic press,
Or catered scraps of ‘tater;
From recipes now deemed duds
As the baker sighs gently.

The proverbial china shop
Guards against the bull.
Upon learning of his coming,
The owner clears all his stocks.
But his plan the bull mocks;
His hooves, incessant drumming
With which he breaks societal rule.
Now comes the owner’s son, armed with mop.

A pickaxe-wielding ‘niner,
I strike my core and rock the spike:
Am I ever the bull,
Or am I at times the spoon?
Do I stop the disposer’s tune,
Or as a bull—as a fool—
Do I others psyche,
Yet think I am the china?

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

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