Busy

I try and immerse myself in the comforts of absurdity.

‘Everything,’ I say to the world at large,

while standing on a table disguised as a cloth,

‘is simply a matter of the absurd, including me,’

(especially me, the inner voice adds).

‘Mr Tree,’ I say to the tree on my left,

calling it ‘Mr’ out of politeness,

or perhaps deference to its age,

and not, as you might fear,

because I wish to gender the universe.

‘Mr Tree,’ I say, ‘you are absurd.

Three cheers for Mr Tree. Hip, hip…’

but nothing and no one cheers the ‘hooray!’

too busy being chairs, tea-cup, book, shoes, etc.,

to join in.