I have a passion for discarded things
People being my specialty;
It takes an eye to ferret out
That real good trash, like me.
Is that look of yours surprise?
Or is it something deeper?
It reeks of recollection
Of the days you threw them out
Threw them away from dignity
Away from common fucking decency.
Did you ever notice that
It’s not the trash itself that stinks
But the pail wherein it’s contained?
How often do you ‘pail’ in this comparison?
But enough about you…let’s just remember
The focus of these ragged lines:
Those used-up souls.
There’s an army of people…an army
I’m dusting them off and sending them
Right back at you, arms open
Waiting to shake the hand contained
Within the once-closed fist.