There is something to be said

about dragging dead weight

through a claustrophobic hall

way -every day- with

nothing but the bags on your back

in your hand on your shoulder and under

your eyes to tell your teachers

Hi. I’m Here.

without moving your lips. it

is sort of like breaking a promise - if you

lift your hand above your nose then you’ve

told everyone.

and it wouldn’t be noticeable

-you’ve thought this through-

if you glance to the left every now and then

to peak at a person who’s

just like you -

Eight years of bags four years of bags six years of

Bags and bags and bags I

cannot stop looking at garbage burning

holes into my people.

but that’s who we are - garbage people.

sifting through the messes piling higher higher

piling bone deep in our chest there’s

so much more that we can do but how can we

see when our fingers have broken digging through the

muck and left us powerless to choose between

trash - recycle - trash - recycle -

we want to find the shattered glass, the fish bones

poking at our ribs, and when we

do we try to shove it over to the trash - but

our palms are sweaty from the pain, so they

slip - often - and fall into a repeat

of shattered eyes and hollow bones supposedly holding

us together. Our structure is

Unstable at best, collapsing more often, but

always we are seen in a specific window.

you only see the train - not the cliff

you only see the wheels - not the broken track

and not everyone keeps on chugging along

because life isn’t fair and people aren’t happy,

but sometimes there is something, some

thing that pile drives into your overburdened

soul and knocks the trash back to hell and

leaves you bareboned, open, weightless.

the possibility is there

maybe it’s you. maybe it’s something else. maybe it’s not.

but maybe is enough.