I was born of a conveyor belt
in a factory line, in to a box,
a blueprint baby you brought home
and set in a cradle before the fire.
Happily we grew old together as I threw
my flickering campfire light so bright
that the cold hearth lay forgotten.
You swept my brow of gathering dust
as the porcelain ballerina grew greyer
and we laughed at my portraits,
laughed dust clouds for entire years
as the skeleton clock wound down
on the mantel – its rotation slowed
as time itself grew old and seized.
The credits rolled on.
We were golden together.
For our anniversary;
you dumped me in a black plastic bag,
moved a skinny bitch in to replace me
but I knew she was coming as
I once knew the red button
of your tender caress, my controller,
before you left me out on the kerb
to the mercy of furry cocked legs,
smashed and unloved in the bin,
cursed by the un-gloved rubbish men.