Have you ever wondered where odd socks go?
I know full well they lurk beneath and behind things,
the dark places you don't stretch to without sneezing;
they float footless and foot loose round drawers
quick fix casualties of a kid's idea of tidy;
they lie, dry balled into corners of duvet covers
the ones you don't use very often
but are sure to use -
soon after the lonely sock cull...
I do admit to wondering about the design features
of modern toasters though,
in particular - why mine has 6 browning settings,
when level 3 burns my bread to crisp.
I wonder whether I should take it to level 6
just for the Jeremy Clarkson hell of it
- and to see if my fire alarm works...
I also wonder why my top of the range Russell and Hobbs,
can't rustle up a decent slice of toast...
though complete with reheat, frozen and bagel function,
why it fails to fit a normal sized slice of bread,
leaving one centimetre untoasted every day,
Come on Mr Dyson - use your loaf
there's a great white hole in the market
and if I'm not mistaken,
the great unwashed British public
want their bread toasted both sides,
as well as buttered!
Recently I've taken to wondering
what cretin designed my new dining table,
bought unseen off the internet
perfect size for my family and kitchen.
I wonder why the umpteen reviews I read prior to purchase
failed to warn me about the 2mm decorative groove
running its full length and breadth ;
of just what a perfect receptacle this would be for
bread crumbs, rice, salt, glitter
or whatever shit happens to fall down there.
I wonder why the table didn't come with its own compass
not the kind to help you out
when you're marooned up some mountain
nor yet the modern, post bullying awareness one
for where would be the point in that?
no - I mean the nice sharp metal ones
you can run along a line of grime
or plunge into an offending cretin's backside.
Now I'm left wondering whether it's safe
to bathroom grout a dining room table
and why I never take advantage
of a 28 day returns guarantee?
I spend a lot of time wondering
maybe it's the poet's curse,
and sometimes at the close of day
when all the socks are matched
the ungrouted table cleared away
when I've given and done
given and done
given and done
and that big old tired sun
has tipped its hat and gone
I look into a lonely littered sky
and wonder why
if there's a reason up above
the oh so loveable and loving
should go unloved.