the back burner

community service

a metal grass-rake rattles roughly
through the rotting, although
sometimes what it wants is a shovel.
barrow after barrow vomit mementos:
dolls, a rotting door, carnival masks,
bedsprings, not to mention the
spiders clutching, salamanders hoping
for a place to hide both dark and wet,
someplace they can count their sordid treasures
in peace. they will not find it here.
better that they go away among
the muck and shards of another life,
to that great compendium of refuse
in the sky. a shovel wouldn’t catch
on this level of detail so much,
would give us a little more breathing room,
unable as i am to disregard the pieces.
a shovel wouldn’t pull it piece-by-piece,
but lump-by-lump. these items
are not really items, after all, let’s say;
they are not to be treated as individuals
but as a class, just nameless waste;
they need a partitive and less discreet attention.
saying six or seven wastes is nonsense, you know,
there is only some or lots of,
non-specific amounts i can leave to the vermin.
the next time i am stuck without
line-item veto options, wading through this mess
to reclaim some neglected, dumped-on
corner of my life, i must remember
to bring my shovel.