The Tyranny 

of Ordinary 

Objects 

 

The beds are telling us lies. 

The chairs sit on us. 

The vase has us keeping 

it in faux flowers,  

ever the tart. 

Our things are 

affirming their  

ownership. 

 

Having chosen us, 

they keep us 

in our place. 

The mirrors reflect 

what they want; 

chilly versions of 

both summer & winter; 

glass eyes trained 

on our every move. 

 

The doors permit us  

to come and go, 

their knobs keeping track 

of everything our hands 

have touched. 

The windows allow us  

to look out 

at clouds that 

rely on being  

safely out 

of our reach. 

 

Colors are magnets 

able to predict  

our mood swings 

with the precision  

of chromatic shadows. 

Here, like attracts like, 

especially once 

the objects 

gain our love 

and trust.  

Then why do I fear

their only regard 

is for each other, 

illustrated by 

the breaking of 

their own rigid

rules. 

Who is serving who?

 

The lamps light us 

while the books are reading  

between our lines. 

Pictures gather 

to hang our art  

out to dry. 

Pillows quash  

our chances  

to leave them, 

knowing it only takes one 

to smother. 

 

The desks think 

their thoughts 

by weighing in 

on our minds. 

The televisions  

look askance 

at our meager  

freedoms 

scowling, happy 

to change us  

like a channel 

to another thought 

entirely, reflecting  

as they do 

our lowly stations. 

Their lives live us 

without the slightest  

demarcation 

between the real 

and the untrue. 

We are their

favorite reality show.

 

Clothes wear us out 

determined to live  

a life of their own, 

bent on  

making their own living 

only to hand  

us down 

to others. 

Would that we

were the wool sweater’s 

favorite lost lamb.

 

The mirrors object  

to our porousness, 

resisting and insisting  

our wills are  

of no importance. 

Drawers close us  

out and in. 

Buttons chaff our thumbs. 

Cupboards instruct us on 

the ingredients of every meal. 

Bacon makes us sizzle. 

Shoes walk us out the door. 

 

Our glasses, which often lose 

sight of us, are wearing our eyes 

in order to bring us visions.  

The nose, a filing cabinet

of sorts 

works like a librarian 

employed to 

identify what 

it is we smell, 

shooshing every sneeze 

that might 

break their spell. 

 

 

Medications are  

addicted to us, 

secretly aligning  

with our 

chronic symptoms; 

blue for fatigue, 

red for energy,

yellow for moving

the bowel. 

Curtains string us along 

in hopes of 

coaxing out  

our confessions. 

 

The floor is onto us. 

The walls keep us in. 

The ceiling wanting 

nothing more than 

to look down on  

us all.  

We, who now find ourselves

living amongst

the tyranny 

of ordinary objects.