The Man and the House
The lawn mower creaked and moaned, discontent as always. Face high rank, it said, expecting the grass to waver like an unsure jury. Oh, shut up, the blades said. Crab grass. Typical.
The chair rocked back and forth and decided the kitchen clock needed dismantling. It went into kitchen and said, “Your gears are mine.” The kitchen clock suffered its fate with characteristic integrity.
The bedroom was witness to fire but kept it to itself, even when the man shook a broom at it and shouted, “Give up your secrets!” The bedroom muttered resolve to itself. Mum was the scorched word.
The bathroom cried itself to sleep.
The garage fantasized it was a root cellar.
The man, shaggy and dumbstruck, stood in the middle and calculated risk.