What gives anything worth?

The user or the used?

The owner or the owned?


I heard somebody paid

Something like a thousand bucks

For a slice of somebody’s

Wedding cake. A very famous

Somebody. But it was stale.

A re-gift. In bad taste?


Well, I’ve just dusted off

And put into the far dark

Corner of a dining room shelf,

Sparkling with souvenirs and relics

In gold-trimmed glass and ceramics,

A reminder of drudgery’s craft.


It’s Mr. Sprinkle! Genuine plastic!

A 7-inch yellow and white striped triangular bottle

With a 2-inch white screwed-on top

Pricked with 6 teeny-weeny holes

To dampen tons of pure American cotton

For Mother’s pre-steam and dry American iron.


It could’ve been tossed in the trash

Or bought for a dollar or less

On the Internet. But Mother was expert

De-wrinkling all things pre-polyester.

Spic and span and smooth,

We stepped out our 20th century door.


So, Mr. Sprinkle stays. Original not

Retro, plastic and not so vaguely phallic.

Utility, now history.



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