I see them as they really are
bright pink and slick-clean when,
in the start-light, they come to me,
choose their veneers for the shine-time.
I display their selections in my silver-side;
she decides herself, always so well finished,
but he needs both our help.
I tend to them faithfully, always ready,
not like that upstart, bed, lying around,
neither providing nor holding a thing,
until they give-up, in the dark-time,
go pale and shivering to that lay-about;
though sometimes I hear them
gasp and moan like they never do with me
their treasured veneers tossed to the floor.
But I know they love me,
they spray sweet-scent,
massage my sides until I gleam.
It is me they trust with memories
kept in a box at my top,
though the lid stays closed.
Sometimes children visit and play inside me;
they know me better than I do,
find whole worlds in the back of me,
their laughter echoing in my chest.
David Thompson is a poet from Droitwich Spa, Worcestershire. His work has featured or is upcoming in Magma, Orbis, The Cannon’s Mouth, The Seventh Quarry and New Contexts: 1 (Coverstory Books, 2021).