The Daily Grind.

                 

      The Daily Grind.


My washing machine is growing long in the tooth.
It seems to have innards made from defunct dentures
That grind together awkwardly
Crunching on seeds and bones.

Whenever I turn it on
The noise is frightful,
Louder than heavy metal,
An ersatz military band,
Leather boots scraping on sand,
Metal studs grinding glass,

Ball bearings rusting together
In winter and foul weather.

But nothing ever gets crushed,
Mangled, chewed into lumps of cud,
Nipped in the bud.
Everything comes out clean,
White as the pre-dawn snow,
Spotless, just as it should be,
Exactly as mama had ordered,
Not a tooth mark to be seen.

Ah
My washing machine is so very nearly half dead.
Oh give it a crutch. Perhaps it will sit up and beg.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
29th. December 2015.