Second Comings

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.