The talking in our house

Is like a trickle from the tap

Even after a long time

Your hands haven't gotten wet

And when you need to soap, it won't lather.

The listening in our house

Is like a tape-recorder

What you say to it makes no difference;

Yet it has recorded the sounds perfectly,

Can repeat them verbatim,

Without understanding.

The laughing in our house

Is like the fancy crockery.

We can display it, visitors and guests can attest;

We use it on ourselves once in a while

And enjoy it; but normally, amongst ourselves,

You wouldn't have guessed it was there.

The love in our house

Is like my mother's wedding ring.

It legitimizes, excuses, entitles;

Assumed to be there, hidden away somewhere

Until one day, searching for something else,

We realize its gone, with no more than the basic minimum pang.