(based on suggestions from @matchtrick, @_boobook_, @marklawrence, @robcorr and @suz_la)
Let me tell you about scales: they are relative to nothing.
In thirty years I had four pairs of bathroom,
two pairs of kitchen. None of the six brought serenity.
The first were orange and round, arrived by serendipity.
Engorged with flour and chocolate chips, they didn’t know
about kilograms, only told stories in ounces.
The second were white and flat. Their serrated red needle
was as unreliable as a taxi driver – I could wind them back
or forward like daylight savings. Didn’t trust them.
The third were red and digital. Their con was substantial,
they told me less than I needed to know. I stole them legally,
had them so long they turned grey with envy of my feet.
The fourth were three points accurate. Told it like it was.
I fused their decimal places to my image like
the holy trinity and was suddenly scaled up.
The fifth were tall, and mediated serotonin in my kitchen.
Sorting butter from flour was my dose of serapax,
They weighed innocuous things like eBay parcels.
The sixth were glass and cool like death. They were my most
hidden platform. I stepped up like the biggest secret
Que sera, sera. Sometimes I didn’t even look at the number.
Today’s poem is based on suggestions from five peeps:
- @matchtrick: “serenity serendipity serration serotonin serapax que sera sera”
- @_boobook_: “scales”
- @marklawrence: "'engorged'. As in the Merri Creek was engorged the other morning."
- @robcorr: “Perhaps "consubstantial", given the current controversy?”
- @suz_la: “shit cab drivers that think they're good then argue with you that they're good when they're not and then go the wrong way. not that I'm currently experiencing that or anything.”