Cirque du Soleil just spent the night
in the drawer where we keep the kitchen scissors.
The scissors are not where I left them yesterday.
This morning, they straddle the jar of paper clips,
arms extended in a victory bow,
clips and snips, both grinning in triumph
at the completion of some feat
beyond the ability of most home office supplies.
The twist ties, if anything, are tidier than when I left them.
They line up smartly, according to height, width, and place of origin.
But I know they've been up to something.
Each one of them has been (precisely)
Plastic cling wrap, wax paper, aluminum foil,
all have (I suspect) been extended to their full length
re-rolled and returned to their boxes
tighter, neater, and somehow more smug
than I have ever seen them.
I'm almost certain I smell grease paint
on the double-a batteries
eyelash glue on the scotch tape dispenser
and that rub they use for sore muscles
on the back of the trusty old stapler
If I were a betting woman
I would bet one hundred dollars
someone has been juggling these push pins
and using those rubber bands for trapezes
employing ball-point pens for stilt-walking...
The toothpicks have biceps.
Q-tips - tired divas
resting from back-to-back aerial performances.
The multi-head screwdriver
just shrugged off glittering spandex
and tucked it away in the compartment
with all of the screwdriver heads.
I search the baking parchment
like a left-behind programme
looking for clues of the night's revelry
proof positive of sensations unseen
but receive only a blank stare.
All acrobatic excess - flatly denied.
The circus has left town.
Scissors fold closed
slip sideways beside the stapler
where they belong.
question: what happens at your house during the night?
mompoet - world of imagination