There is no record of it

There is no record of it

Not in any linear way

Nobody understands the process

Of disintegration

More than the disinterested

Who had no hand in the proceedings

But always smell of roses.

The cutlery drawer

Always closes

On its own

With barely a push

How amazing is that

Even I need a reminder

From myself

To put the lid down.

It closes slowly

Without a sound

To alert any listening ear,

So who would know?

Why do men find it hard

To sit down.

There must be a restroom

Full of lost souls

With dim memories

Of the before times

Waiting to catch up

To their attributions.

So many refuse them

Shedding responsibility

For a lack of progress

Blaming the dangerous lean

The gentle slip

The broken hip

On the tilt of the kitchen floor

The height of a worktop.

Slate is a wonderful thing

If all you want to do

Is wipe it clean.

I’ve seen it before

It pads in and out of existence

It has explosive flatulence

But cares less

For the stink it creates

Than the fuss

I make of it.

I told the woman next door

She sympathised

With the notion

Of learned helplessness.

She had a dispute

With a prideful lion

Taking up her bed

Refusing to bring home the bacon

But expecting a cut

Of the profits at bedtime.

There is no record of it

As the elephant crushed the laptop

And the lion ate its words.