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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
company?”
December 6 , 2008