Poetry

The Rubbish Sack

When you open the rubbish sack, what do you expect to see? The empty packets of last night’s tasteless dinner? A card from someone you once knew so well it was like having a twin? That unopened box of over-fragrant toiletries your cousin of a cousin of a cousin gifted you three Christmases ago?

Why are you looking in there anyway? In that black hole of discarded things? You’re searching for a key? Oh, what kind of key? …You don’t know? Then what good will it do even if you find one?

Don’t you try to drown me out with that bag of sprouting spuds.

Hey. Hey! HEY!

Poetry

Shoulder-hugger

Dot. Stamp. Dot. Stamp.

Tapping lightly,

the marbled paper bleeds. Rivulets

of perspiration; precipitation from the mind.

Tick. Tick. Cross. Tick.

Scathing, scarring acid nails

scrape the skin. That little demon.

Shrug it off. Away, down the river.

Beaten with adrenaline.