Today, My Toaster Spoke To Me

Today My Toaster Talked To Me

Today my toaster spoke to me,

Of all of the things that she could see --

A spoon-rest, the stove

The microwave,

the mixer, she says, who

Does not behave.

I listened, I learned, I stood there and trembled,

Frightened to find my mind disassembled.

What in the world? Oh,

How could this be --

Inanimate objects were talking to me!

Would I now write

like a monkey on crack?

Produce nothing but drivel,

Turn into a hack?

Then the spatula shouted, "Don't believe all that tripe!

When you are in doubt, write a stereotype!

Paint a broad, foolish stroke -- use clichés and

Weak tricks; and when people notice

You can call them all pricks."

The coffee pot chuckled and grinned fiendishly,

But I know his affliction -- bipolarity.

And I cannot remember a thing that he said,

Milquetoast ramblings rarely stay in my head.

The toaster then whined,

"Pay attention RIGHT HERE!

You know that my talents kick yours in their rear.

I've pointed that out, more often than not,

But you are the one

undeservedly hot. "

I glanced at the toaster and

Swallowed my pity,

Reminded myself that

The toaster writes shitty.

The kitchen then slowed into something like stillness,

I knew, for a fact,

this was some mental illness.

I could have said something, I could have been cruel,

But I do not deign to respond to a fool.

There may be some hatred, and

A whole lot of tension,

At least I lay claim to

Reading comprehension.

And when you are leaving, I cannot say more

Than good luck to you, sweetheart --

Watch your ass with that door.