Cleaning out your apartment,
            I stand accused.

A shard of broken crockery cries out:
“Why? I am perfectly good.
There’s the glue. I can be fixed.”

A wallet, half in shreds:
“I served your father for thirty years.
He thought I was great just as I am.”

A plastic cup with its jumble of old screws and bolts:
"You’ll be sorry. You’ll need
 one of us some day!”

The t-shirt yellowed with age:
“What’s the matter? I have no holes.
 So, you have a need to buy?”

The torn jacket:
“Don't thow me out.
Why not mend me?”  

Half out the door, finished for the
            day, I hear the voice:

“Did you leave that light on
in the kitchen for a reason?
You think I own the electric

December 6 , 2008

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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