THINGS

Things, our things,
like me to love them:
my table likes me to lean my elbows on it
the chair likes me to sit on its seat,
the door likes me to open and close it,
just as the wine likes me to buy it and drink it,
my pencil falls apart if I grasp it and write,
my wardrobe trembles if I open it and peer inside,
sheets are sheets when I lie on them
and the bed complains when I get up.
What will become of things when man is no more?
Like dogs, they don't exist without a master.