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.