The sliding shriek of cutlery on fine bone china,
a cup falling down to chip on the hard stone.
Its pattern is ruined, but who cares?
It’s just a cup.
The ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece
gathering dust until the particles clog its inner workings.
They grind to a halt, but who cares?
It’s just a clock.
The candelabra placed on a table set for one,
its elegant white candles unburnt and dry.
Its golden finish is tarnished, but who cares?
It’s just a candelabra.
The rose, cut so long ago from its bush,
each year its waxy, ruby petals fade even more.
They fall one by one, but who cares?
And now he panics.