I am the alley the cat dragged in.
I am the aborted pine tree on December 26, I am the expired fever reliever, the hand mixer that will no longer mix, the Mickey Mouse watch that no longer ticks
in time to your world’s changing current.
I am the blown tissue, the threadbarren sweater,
the shrunken shrink-wrap, the smashed security jar still grieving
years of pennies and nickels;
I am the consummated cereal box, the empty soda six-pack,
the unusable dust-sucker-upper;
I am the box of styrofoam snow that used to make Sunday mornings glow
with Tom and Jerry or some other unspeakable relic of long-defeated barbarianism
I am the open love seat, bleeding fat fleece from the undone seams
that used to hold firmly the shimmering asses
making what was then called love.
I am all the things you tried and failed to make forget
you meant only as a business maneuver
I am found by others, the crows or the boys looking for plastic bottles
hoping to be worth a few cents for a few precious minutes
at best, they take, they sell me for that chance