Mind Games

He calls to tell me
the TV is playing up again.
It whizzes through the channels
like an express train
when he picks up the remote.

'Don't keep your finger on the button,' I explain.
'Press it once.'

And the voices he hears? They're distant.
Faint. Remote.

Everyone whispers these days he says.
You all need to speak up.

Most surprising is the news
that the stubby legs on his armchair
have, apparently, grown longer.

He's afraid to sit on it
and is using the seat opposite.

'Perhaps it's going to walk across the room
and sit on you,' I don't say.

His phone, too, is a mystery.
The only number it will dial successfully
is mine.

Which is fine.
That's what I'm here for.

But all this has got me thinking
about inanimate objects
and their secret lives.

My garage door,
for example.

I'm sure it was shut
a second before.
And I haven't touched it.

However, if it does have a mind
at least it's open.


Mind Games