In my youth,

in a cubby under the stairs,

there sat a big rag-bag.

Chaotically stuffed.

We’ve no rag-bag.

Our rags are store-bought:

laundered and folded.

Our cast off garments sit–

caked in dumpster chutney–

in a landfill.

Rag-pickers will scavenge them.

Some will be stuffed into craggy concrete holes.

There to keep the rats out.

The rats will make a nice meal of them.

And maybe a nest.

Some will rub rims clean–

if only for a monsoon moment.

Wiping, wiping–they’ll one day

dissolve into component threads.