—
—
It’s nice, isn’t it? The way we all can just look
Out the window and see the
Same things everyday, like that
Same poop-filled plastic bag.
Someone scooped up with
His own hand, closed it gently,
With a sweet bow,
Carefully tying it shut. Then PLOP,
Dropped it there on the
Town grass where he can
Walk by, daily, with the dog,
To visit it, and
As it’s turning winter, enjoy
Its temporary disappearance. Until
An observant robin sings
Its triumphant return– it peeps slowly
From its snow cocoon,
Sighing into the warming sun. But,
It forgets itself in the
Luxuriant grasses of summer,
A little bit bored now,
A bit steamed that its dog
Doesn’t even sniff as it goes by now, and
No one bothers to remark on it as they
Pass, and even I forget, till early I hear mowers
And look out:
My old friend is torn to shreds.
—
This post is part of a month-long series of #smallstone found here and on the web. Thanks to Fiona Robyn and Kaspalita from Writing Our Way Home for supporting a wonderful writing community.