Chihiro Tsukamoto

These are my best friends,

or they are for this week.

Who knows how long they’ll last

the strenuous torture of their lives.

They never last long,

because they’re delicate things,

who can’t hope to withstand,

the pressures and demands.

I bang them together,

mash them to bits,

and slam the door,

while they’re stuck at the hinge.

Next comes the hammering, the stamping,

and snipping of their rosy complexions.

You can see why I so often

get new friends every week!

After dusting them completely

from tip to heel with rosin

I sew into them many stitches,

while disregarding their winces.

Pricking ribbons into their sides,

making them awfully agonized,

thank goodness I don’t have to

darn them anymore!

I tie them with satin,

and bristle their soles,

after much work and preparation,

they’re in for further devastation.

I use them for hours,

day after day,

until quite suddenly

they’ve worn all away.

After they’ve collapsed

and died a quick death,

they get hanged in my closet

or tossed far away.

This is what happens

to my friends all the time,

because they can’t keep up

with my tempo and pace.

But I’ve fond memories with each,

all locked up and valued,

so it’s not quite sad, is it,

when I’ll see their likes again?