He used to hoard his poems in a plastic bag –
They were heavy but the burglars threw them on their
Backs with the rest of his life – fill the cracks in theirs
With more crack.
Later, he came home and found it
Gone and worse, his poems taken, and he knew that
Somewhere, soon, they would decompose in the stink
Of rotting food.
Nothing was left, he had no insurance, he had
No chip that housed anything good he’d ever said
With dread the sink dripped and he thought how stupid
He had been to put his poems in a plastic bag that felt like money.
[To be continued]
Being Every Day 