Samovar.(Poem)

 
SAMOVAR 
 
   My left-over samovar thinks it is an heirloom, 
   connoisseur of dust, and chaperon of 1901. 
   Silvoed with a velvety cloth 
   to a grey plague gleam 
   its empty belly smells of several nowheres. 
 
   This mottled shape of Britannia metal 
   has staked me out with its balding silver spout 
   and fancy handle; teetering on the curlicue stand, 
   the battered traveller's journeyed twice to the Salvos, 
   once to the dump, and come back. 
 
   You are plainly a durable marriage 
   of body and soul, I couch her round warm 
   confirmation gravity and levity 
   both embrace mass. 
   This is our ongoing dialogue game. 
 
   The way a solar cell drinks in the sun, 
   these servants store us up 
   as play-back love. Yet cannot quite be. 
   ...