Member Poem

Silken egg shells,
sad carrot parings,
limp outer leaves,
and other memories
are pushed further down,
yet the croissant packaging
clearly has other ideas,
its crinkled recoil springs
a surprise,
scattering old coffee grounds.

It used to be a Thursday,
then a Tuesday,
now it’s irrelevant.

I will never find
the bright bulb of inspiration
inside this dark drum,
designer pedal trod
on at the wrong
moment.

I wipe its steel sides,
the tea stain drip I missed
the other day,
and continue to disembowel
with bare hands,
although I know
deep down,
this bin will never be emptied.

**