Iris Murdoch And The Inanimate Poem by Richard George

'Thrown away'. I sense
one degree of your kindness
encompassing all

in those two sad words.
But what would a bottle feel?
It's just a waiter -

it dies with its tip,
and the last pang of pleasure
on a summer tongue.

Chairs, on the other
hand; chairs are made for longer
association.

No one to support;
no creativity to
underpin, no warm

clamp-to of buttock.
One leg of four breaks, and this
racehorse is useless.

Chairs mourn, I'm sure,
in the charnel of junk; lie
catatonic.