The Old Stuff

Scraps…

The familiar.
What makes for the look sideways,
Over there?
Just to make sure the stuff is in its place.

Is it the dream?
That maybe.
Another look, only one this week.
Might it appear different?
Transformed!

Truly, it was the imagination,
All of those cruel words.
Words, words, and words…
Hurled words, like boulders.

Am I alive
Or merely a shell
The remnant of a person?
Having withstood, facing head-on,
With few words of my own
In combat.

Fail quickly, someone told me,
Too late!

See there, the empty, bent trash can.
Fill and tie a tight, square knot, with lid crammed shut.
The heavy thing carried away, by someone else.
A kind, hardworking soul.
Or, the virtual trash can, that makes a real sound.

Who cares how?
Only in the gratitude
That the space is now cleared.
New meaning allowed for, in this pretend life,
My one chance, I presume.

Limp to the safety.
Of the empty space.

And, rest for a while.

Loretta Warner, I Love Knitting
Poet and writer who uses all things textile – as a distraction.