hidden behind the Cheerios, plunges
buttfirst into the thirty-three gallon
trash can. She’s wedged up to her knees, half-way
down the barrel, her ass throned on empty
mac&cheese boxes, milk jugs, & egg shells.
Who wouldn’t fall on the floor laughing?
She screams at each of us for a jerk, cries,
bribes us with chips. The Rubbermaid turtle,
stranded in our kitchen, calls out to us:
Grab my hand, I’ll tell you that I love you.
We don't help her, don't want to hear garbage.
She's got to crawl out of this dump herself.
2 comments:
I love this one. I esp. like the balance of pathos and humor here. You always avoid the "pity party" in the poems, but you don't undermine them with too much levity either.
The final line was weak and disappointing:
And even with a kitchenful of help,
she's got to crawl out of this dump herself.
Better?
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