Two glasses sat quietly on the dinner table
Beside the twin reflective tea light holders
And the salt mill, And the pepper mill
And the spoon fresh from stirring tea
And the blue mug warm from the cooling liquid
And the ticking clock that attacked the silence
A dry dishcloth sat stranded on the radiator
Beside the folding door into the living room
Where the solitary sofa sat, and the wooden stool,
And the white case full of all their books
And the small rug spread across the cold floor,
And the television reflecting the silence
The broad leaves of the basil plant hung
Almost concealing the washing up liquid
Whose bottle rested on the chopping board.
Where the worktop ended, the sink began.
The tap stared at the shiny drying rack
And the twin plates, and forks, and knives
The tins of sugar, and coffee, and tea
In single file beside the leaking kettle
And the toaster, and the coffee machine,
And the half empty spotty butter dish
Lined the worktop by the window
Through which the darkness poured
A child seat with two footballs within it
Rested beside the door to the garden
With the travel bag, and the hanging coats,
And the purple dust pan, and the broom,
And the old brown mat with fraying edges
And the football boots, and pink shoes
The fruit bowl by the empty cake stand,
And the plate with the ginger biscuits,
Had eleven cooking apples and a lemon,
And the last of the Victoria plums.
And small white pot of baking powder
Stood beneath the closed cupboard.
Twin paintings of fish on the wall
And the small white spice rack
And the clock forever attacking the silence
© Denis Adide 2011
Because it doesn’t have to be exciting to be life.