Ode to trainers

Odes

Americans prefer the softer sound

of sneakers; a word on tip-toe,

silent, unfitting. As pathetic

as its English counterpart.

Occasionally, they are head collectors

of bunnies made of dust;

they lurk dormant

waiting for the next exercise burst

that will set them back on track,

for God knows how long.

They hate the ground, and like fists

push their way above it,

until gravity brings them down

in a thunderous whoosh.

They come and go, they ebb and tide

and wait for the next round

to get them out of their comfort zone:

The snug spot below the bed

needs some serious dusting.

Ode to doors

Odes

Like a giant shield

it guards private minutes

with the zeal of a shining knight

and the unmoving stare of a statue.

If you have a door, that is.

You hardly pay any mind to

the steadfast open/close

and take for granted the solid plank of wood

Jim Morrison managed to immortalize.

A five-lettered noun of dissonant reassurance,

that begins and ends at the sound of a click

or bang, if you ask for it.

Ode to IKEA

Odes

Your logo in yellow

reads like home to me.

Past your rotating doors

await a million things

I never knew I wanted.

You often have surprises

though I study your catalogue

with religious fervor often;

Each verse an invitation for a purchase —

Tirup:55:9 reads Buy me, while

Billy:77:7 is Perfect for that corner!

I enter with a plan, a short list, an intention

But you disarm me in a matter of seconds.

Of course, this could be my kitchen,

Yes, of course, I want this as my living room.

I test the pillows, I stretch;

The room is suddenly my own

until a passerby enters uninvited.

The audacity! The violation!

I scribble notes with my midget pencil

I write down codes, aisles and colors

and move along.

By the time I reach the register

my mouth is dry but my heart is eager.

I foot an inflated bill and head for the exit

carrying a dismembered version of LivingRoom:29.

An ode to orange

Odes

When it comes to the fruit

I am your number one fan.

The juicy wedges

cool me, quench my thirst.

The bumpy surface of your peel

is quite refreshing to the touch,

but that color —

Oh dear! What a disgrace!

You’re a fashion faux-pas

for all seasons; yet, in denial

colorblind women flaunt you

with embarrassing pride.

Even my nearest and dearest

have been fooled into thinking

you are cool, on occasion.

But I shall never surrender.

Only the fruit gives your hue a good name.

Peel me another, please.