POEM: Rag Bag

 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.

One thought on “POEM: Rag Bag

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