Garbage

I honestly don’t even remember writing this one. I believe it was done in 2005. I’m not sure what provoked the subject or the style.

Garbage

“Who are you?” They ask.
“My name is…”
“No, who are you?”
“Why I’ve got a PhD, MBA, CP…”
They cut me off again. “Who, are you?”
“I like rainy days…”
Again with the cutoff
Who am I? What do they want to know?
Who am I? What, deep down? Who am I really?

Come see where I live—
Nice house, nice furniture, expensive artwork,
The bedroom, warm but energetic, classy
Jacuzzi on the back deck.
Who I am?
Everything in its place, everything put away, stored, perfect.
Am I perfect?
“What do you think?” I ask my friends.
All good things, all very positive.
I ask my reflection while flossing.
No, not perfect,
But nobody knows about that,
My vice, my secret.
What if I died, would they find out?
No, very careful, very careful indeed.
The expense?
Untraceable.
Only the trash would expose, it alone could condemn
They don’t check the trash, do they?
Nice little black bags with yellow ties
Stuffed with addiction.
The garbage man—my savior,
It will be grounded
Smashed
Buried
Eroded
And lost.
I will be free.
Free from blame, free from guilt.
“Who are you?” They ask
I answer, throwing away the piece of floss
“Perfect.”

 

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