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A poem about trash…

It’s late and it’s my turn to take the garbage out. I will get yelled and screamed at, but I must take the garbage out.

These bags smell like trash and it seeps into my clothes. 

I become trash.

I see the moon bright and the shadow from the street lamp distracts me somewhat from the putrid dripping that hits the gravel driveway as I drag the garbage to the bin. 

I have to lift the rubbish up and drop it in the dark hole and it’s there that I come face to face with the remnants of the week, molded and  decomposing, like my insides.

I hold my breath and count to ten, twice, no three times and slam the bin shut. 

Oh how it hurts to take the garbage out.

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One thought on “A poem about trash…

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