Funeral Of An Inanimate Object Poem by Sheena Blackhall

A baker chews his pencil, completes a crossword
A small girl writes in her secret diary
A mathematics student scribbles numbers

In a room a carpet fitter measures a floor
In a school a child practises handwriting
In a bank, a teller ticks off jobs to perform

At a bingo hall a pensioner scores on squares
At a bookie's shop a punter chooses runners
At the crime scene a policeman jots down facts

The doctor doodles on her memo pad
The shopper ticks off items on his list
The decorator measures strips of paper

In the graveside of my mind
I lower my pencils, brushes, pens
Into the vault of failure

The pencil was meant to unlock life's sweet ambition
My brushes were meant to build a bridge to dream

Like Durer, Escher, Desgas, Leonardo
Like Van Gogh, Gaugin, Vermeer, Michaelangelo

The fault llies not with the objects
The fault lies my useless, fruitless hand

I was the only mourner
It was a private ceremony