You’re two feet long and nailed down.
You’re a hello hostage forced to small talk
with every shoe, flip flop and wellie.

Nice weather for ducks
I hear you cry
after rainy forest walks.

You hold on to shit for weeks,

struggle to brush off daily swipes
from the arrogant door
flapping its oily gums.

You sit and listen,
sharpening your bristles.

© Carl Burkitt 2020