Shrink

I wonder if I ever disgust my toilet 

and what goes on in the bathroom sink drain.

I wonder what my bed sheets think of me

and if they talk about me after I go to work.

I wonder if my mattress and pillows are related,

like second cousins twice removed. 

I wonder if my walls talk about my exes

and fritter away about who they liked least or most.  

I wonder if my toaster is happy with it's life

or if it considers burning the house down. 

I wonder if my refrigerator gets angry when I forget leftovers and let vegetables rot in the crisper.

I wonder if the couch is a writer

and plans to tell all my secrets in a scathing novel. 

Or if it has delusions of going to Tahiti

with the change that trickles down it's cushions. 

I wonder if I had ghosts who got bored of me

and left to haunt another house. 

I wonder if my washing machine and drier

are on the verge of divorce -

who were the happiest couple I know. 

I wonder if the curtains ever feel undesirable

and if my vacuum cleaner is a closet homosexual. 

I wonder if my microwave feels neglected

when I use the oven too often;

and if I offend the oven when I call the microwave a "microwave-oven."

I wonder if the doorknobs are conspiring against me, 

laughing like jackals. High on germs and Lysol. 

I wonder if my television calls me a hillbilly when I call it a TV,

and if the channel "accidentally" changes itself

or if it's on purpose, taunting me with commercials for erectile dysfunction pills and Rogaine.  

I wonder if my dining chairs are old perverted Englishmen that are very disappointed 

I never have guests over with fat lady bottoms. 

I wonder if my dishwasher is a bipolar nihilist who contemplates suicide in garbled German.

I wonder if my trash prefers to be called rubbish. 

What about the kitchen sink? she asks. 

What does it do or think?

It's a sink. I replied. It doesn't do or think anything.

She frowns.

The garbage disposal, however, is a sadist.

It waits for me to fish out a clog with my bare hand. 

She takes note.

I wonder if the door misses someone 

who doesn't come anymore

and checks the faces of passing strangers for her.

I wonder if the porch swing gets lonely 

as it cries and swings alone in the cold, cold wind. 

No one sits there anymore.  

I wonder what the trees say when no one's listening.

What the grass does when no one's watching.

If you're laughing, though I'm no longer joking. 

I wonder if the mailbox feels used.