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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.

1 Comment

  1. “monsoon moment” YES! Thanks for sharing


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