How strange ordinary things are, 
The unwound clock that refuses
To acknowledge the sovereignty 
Of time. Stare at a brass doorknob 
Long enough and you see a nose 
Capable of sniffing out secrets 
Hidden behind a closet door. 

The pool of lamplight revealing
The clutter on a worn old table
That shows the chaos of unpaid bills 
And books that will never be read, 
Over there behind glass, a row
Of thirsty glasses waiting to sing 
The spontaneous song of wine.