Stuffed taut with everything I owned
Hastily packed, hope caught on zippers.
An orchestra of plastic and panting breath,
Midnight scramble to escape the static.
My pumpkin carriage crinkles at dawn.
I’ve hidden years inside its bulging folds,
Memories squeezed into trash bag sanctuaries,
A life reduced to portable shadows.
Each bag a chapter, ripped at corners,
The grit of leaving stains your palms.
Who knew departure could smell like plastic,
Choking, stretching, desperate to contain us.
As the sun yawns across the skyline,
My hands ache with pulled-tight knuckles.
And still, I drag them behind me,
Big black trash bags, tethered to ghosts.
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Comments2
Wow! This one is a visible verbal vestige violating vintage vermin. Don't know where that one came from but those black trash bags cast an image of a trass heap or land fill. So much trash of a life goes in those bags Gray. Loved the poem
It seems like even though the trash is in the bag, it refuses to go in the bin.
We all seem to carry those black bags of trash that find themselves back in the house like an unwanted guest.
You are correct. Thanks Paul for sharing your feedback
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