Sight, Sound, Taste, Smell, Feel

Sounds like the soft shuffle of a bristle broom on an old barn floor.

Looks like a baby porcupine, far below on the ground.

Feels like an extension of your arm, natural to maneuver, like a bat might feel to a baseball player.

-------------------
What am I?
by The Optimist

I sleep at the end of her bed.
She hates to walk across her room to get me in the morning.
She feels I might gather dust
if I go to live with the lonely red polish and the aged perfume.
How stupid.
She kicks me off the bed at night anyway,
and I wake up under the bed,
staring up at the particle board
or down at the cracks in the floor,
looking like a baby porcupine,
helpless, far below on the ground.
Sometimes, I end up with the little dog,
Who dislikes me for disturbing her sleep.
I am tossed about, a nomadic implement
somewhere between vanity and hygiene.
Never knowing which room or bag I will spend the afternoon in.
But then, she picks me up, and we dance around to her music.
Twirling together, I am strong,
an extension of her arm,
like a bat might feel to a baseball player.
I move through the strands,
parting, detangling,
sounding like the soft shuffle of a bristle broom on an old barn floor.