I lay in her drawer all night
wooden air around me rough and moist
Morning was six hours away
her opinions then she would voice
holding me tight,sometimes she bites
my head she does when she has a bad day
Oh drawer, you shield me from her life
Her anger, her spite, her pain, her loss
Oh drawer of rigid frame
did you know in your wooden air thrives black moss?
You do know, I know, but just like her wife
you grin and bear, the little child cannot take blame.
Image Link – Here
I have not much to say for this poem, I do not like working with set objects, it constricts the possibilities but then I still have a lot to learn. Yet this poem speaks of a drawer, speaks to the drawer, but the discussion is of that of a woman who uses something in the drawer to express her angst. Is it a pen or a dairy, or perhaps something something else -a phone, a camera, a tablet (modern twists!)? There is also a wife who silently takes her tantrums like the wooden drawer who knows it is rotting inside with black moss. The wooden drawer is helpless just like the wife.