Take me to the landfill

and leave me there

to be torn apart by the razor

sharp beak of the seagulls;

savagely squawking as they fight

for the morsels

and the remains of sweetmeats.

Place me on a pyre

of my efforts and strike a match

underneath the kindling

doused in petrol and regret,

and leave me to burn

as my body melts away

to smoke

and the black circles drifting

in the wind….

For there are days I feel

rubbish,

that I feel the anger of refuse,

used like garbage…

the waste and the half-tossed litter

aimed at the bin, but which falls

silently

to the pavement floor.

Ian D. Hall 2020