I am staring at
the small box carried
from house to house,
rat hole to shit hole
to bolt hole.

Lumps, inside,
of formed plastic,
a couple harmonicas
a little
memory when I take
the time to look.

It has always hovered over
the garbage can, staring into
the place where mothers throw
old comics and baseball cards,
where fashion
goes when the booze wears off.

It leaves a subtle puncture
in the plastic bag,
clawing to stay,

I push hard and toss some
coffee grounds on top
watch them soak into
old pictures and gag gifts

The saturated brown crumbs
will make sure that
those dreams and memories
will not come back.

For the need of more space.