Every home has one, lurking in the kitchen.
A dark, deep cupboard, where the odds and ends
Reside. Iron pots and pans, sit, forgotten,
All thick with rust. Their stoic stand contends
For space with whisks, and strings of weights, a thing
With spikes, that seems to serve no purpose, yet
Is kept, far back, in some vain hope to bring
Out some far future day; part of a set
Required again at last. But that cupboard
Taunts me; the space has inch thick grime, pasted
On wasted shelves, that cry for soap and hard
Scrubbing. I’ll drag out each lump that’s rusted,
Discard it all, and make the dead bugs fly,
And swear to check my over eager magpie’s eye.