Useless

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Abandoned, along with
What no longer
Finds use, I fill my ark
While the flood, angry
And possessed,
Picks up the dropped brooms
And sweeps us all away.
If I could take all my things
I could fill up the seas
With pictures
With memories. These barren
Things cannot reproduce.
They’re useless to you,
So die with me.
There’s another vessel
More expansive than mine
One stolen from the earth
Itself – thieves of children.
Some take to the street
Wondering what will become
Of the television and the personalities.
What becomes of a toaster, but not
Of printed pictures. Imagining
who they once were, without mirrors
As they’ll tell those stories again.
And again on the mountain
Without anyone to say their names,
Words uttered by our forgotten elders
Burned and brushed away
With the back of a hand,
Crumbs from a scone from the kitchen table.
In china saucers and tea cups we’ve only
Leaves to read the future.
Whistles stopped hissing,
The propane tanks emptied, and dry.
The pots lost their use too,
Use along with
spoons, toast and jam.
A bright copper kettle whistled left on the stove, alone.
While the deer and the foxes
The white peacocks,
Looking for a mate
Because it’s spring
Isn’t it? In this place
Walking a line along
With polite words
We no longer remember to say thank you or please,
Forgotten along with our self respect. Peer into
Open windows to look for someone
Still of use to this
New economy of
Timelessness.
They gently, slowly walk over the threshold,
Hooves, claws and feathers cross
The old welcome mats.
The neon on the buildings
That once flashed
Letters meaning money,
But keeping the change
Without anything with which to pay.
Value’s obituary whispered on
The last exhale of every mother’s breath.
The deer, the foxes and the white peacock
Need no ark. They waited
For us to become useless
To this street, this way
Where belongings put away
In closets and drawers
No one to claim, “it’s mine”.
Because
What is a grave but a
Hold on the earth
To contain our body’s use
Long after our death.

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