Bag (a revision) by DjWhite

When it's done,

all that's left is what

I've carried


I'm an over looked

forgotten brown


oh  selfish  hedonist

you need me


and will find me

somewhere

Krogers

a State Store

hidden
at the end of check-out lines

smooth and flat.



My progenitors have been

gone for hundreds of years,

but, I'm still here

wasteful  wasted

dead as they are

dead as you


You won't remember me
and don't want too

So, cruel

your lessons learned,

narcissistic madness


such bankrupt morality
unfolds

my creases looking

for God

yet you


stuff the Y
of my thighs

with fifths of  E & J

or sweaty cans of  211s

then leave
parts of me


under a Canal street bridge

tenting

men in the middle of winter

or

emptied

crumbled

flapped up

against a neighbor's fence.

Possibilities written by DjWhite

It's possible that I'll find

you stewing

on the stove

layered between bubbles

of beef and sour cream;

or maybe I'll see you

gripped frantically

at the end of the cat's tail

desperately holding

to self-preservation.

Often, I'll catch

you swagger through

the door

just behind my smarter half

around dinner time at 6PM

listen to you

snickering at the heated debate

between him and his zipper

over the frailty

of restraint's constitution.

But, normally, it'll be

on a rainy afternoon --

while I sit beside the window

in this oak rocker

creaking back and forth
to muse's rhythm

and listening to the pat, pat, pat

of double-paned complaints,

--  that you'll  peek

at me from Picasso's

or Monet's brush stokes

or flutter from Baudelaire's

bound thoughts

reminding  me

that they too,

were inspired

by someone else's

inspiration.