Scrap

This ancient scrap
just tinder for life’s roar
inside your head the freeway
guns patrol, no need to scour
the world for portents.
So much you find protects
indifferently, your own undoing
everything you loved.
Who would have thought
what’s left could have such drive,
to pace the house and disregard
each frantic missive,
the tyranny of what goes on
when you’re not there.
So caught off guard,
so intercepted
by this flagging imposter,
this figment, this
scrap.

. . .

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