Cornered by Junk

There is a corner. You know it. You've been
there. Where I pile up all the dead
car batteries. The useless bits
of equipment I can't face
to throw away in case of that "someday"
when its usefulness becomes clear
in ways you would never have thought.

It's a corner often in darkness. Light
is slatted from the junk. Where I hide
the daily minutiae under the bunk of fear.
I sit there and pick off
the scabs that hide the topside of the scar;
drink from the broken cups cracked by pride,
and try to wear once again
the sleeves torn off the heart
pretending not to be inside.

It's a corner where I sit to read sometimes.
All the poems I keep there
will never see the light
of day; in all the books I wrote to lay
bare what I would never dare say
in polite company. I read them
trying to remember who I was yesterday.

It's a corner only for me. Until, that is,
you came with prying fingers
coming to have a clean.
So many things to throw out
that I could never do. But did you
ever ask if I wanted to?
Shining your torch into its shadows
like it was some form of game.
Go on and take a peek.
Catch me if you can. Hide and seek.
But all you'll find is blame.

From the collection: "A Torch For All the Dead" >>

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