The Objects Around Me

            The objects around me speak when I listen to them. They are everywhere; I step on them, I step around them, I sometimes notice them and sometimes don’t. Staplers, couches, curbs, paint, bouncy balls – you know, objects. I am Neruda, stooping around with reporter’s pad and scribbling pen saying “ah” and “yes” and “I see.” They speak to me and to everyone. Some are crass and I avidly transcribe their florid curses. Some are simple, some the most effusive philosophers I have experienced. My shelves sag beneath dusty mounds of notepads, bearing the weight of the objects’ everyday words.